A 




THE POEMS AND STORIES 



OP 



/ 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 



CoUecteU antJ EUiteU, toitfj a Sfeetclj of tije ^utljor, 



BY 



WILLIAM WINTER. 




BOSTON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 

1881. 






Copyright, 18S1, 
By James R. Osgood and Company. 



All rights reserved. 



Universitt Press : 
John WasoN and Son, CAMBRrrcE. 



^Ijts Folume, 

THE FIRST THAT EVER HAS BEEN MADE 
OF THE WRITINGS OF 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN, 

SOLDIER AND PATRIOT 

AS WELL AS POET AND SCHOLAR, 

IS DEDICATED 

TO THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 

UNDER WHOSE FLAG HE FOUGHT, AND FOR 
WHOSE CAUSE HE DIED. 



M 






i^ ^^^' 



/' 



PREFACE. 



nnHE work that is here performed — imperfectly^ hut as 
thoroughly as is now possible — should have been done 
a long time ago, and would have been done, but for several 
serious obstacles interposed by what, seemingly, was an 
almost malign fate. ' Brien on his death-bed appointed 
two friends to be his literary executors. One of them, Mr. 
Frank Wood, speedily followed him '''into the silent land." 

The other, Mr. Thomas E. Davis, found neither opportu- 
nity, encouragement, nor an auspicious time for the fidfil- 
ment of the work. O^BrierHs writings were scattered far 
and wide. In some instances the use of them was thought to 
he impeded by the claim of copyright. The facts of his brief 
career were hut obscurely known. His character and his 
ivay of life had made him a difficult subject to treat. It 
was natural that a gentleman, not by profession a man of 
letters, and embarrassed by such untoward circumstances, 
shoidd hesitate at such a task. About six years ago, the 
intimation was given that O'Brien's writings would be col- 
lected and published by one of his relatives in Ireland. 
Nothing, however, came of that ; and it seemed more than 
likely that justice to the memory of this brilliant writer 
would never he attempted. lam almost the last survivor 
of the literary comrades with whom he was associated more 
than twenty years ago ; and perhaps it is not altogether 
inappropriate that the work so long left untouched by others 
should at last be accomplished by me. 



Yi PREFACE. 

The writings here collected have heen drawn from many 
sources, and they have been thoughtfully chosen, carefully 
arranged, and, in soine instances, revised. It has heen 
found essential to search many old files and to confer with 
many persons. Messrs. Harper S^ Brothers, with ready 
kindness, have permitted me to use all of O'Brien's works 
that were originally published in their periodicals, and 
also the cuts which illustrate the satire of " The Finishing 
School." The Harpers were among his stanchest, most 
practical, and most faithful friends. Articles of his have 
' been taken also from the Atlantic Monthly, the Knicker- 
bocker, Putnam's Magazine, the United States Review, 
Vanity Fair, the Lantern, the Home Journal, and other 
sources. He contributed to many periodicals, — to the 
New York Times, the Evening Post, Leslie's Story Paper, 
Leslie's Stars and Stripes, the Democratic Review, and 
the American Whig Review ; and. it is said that, in 1851, 
he edited, in London, a publication devoted to the World's 
/ y^Fair, and that he also wrote for the Leisure Hour. Like 
t/y^lc dl author slwho are obliged, habitually and constantly, to 
^ ^ ^work under the stress and strain of writing for bread, he 
produced things that had no value beyond the moment, and 
some that were below the level of his own standard of taste. 
In preparing this volume, the endeavor has been made to 
present a selection of his chief and characteristic works, 
rather than to mass together all that he wrote. The material 
thus far collected would fill more than a thousand pages, 
and much of what is now necessarily omitted is equally 
worthy with the works here given of republication in a per- 
manent form. 

Among O'Brien'' s writings which it has not been found 
possible to include in this collection, but which may here- 
after be presented to the public, are essays entitled " Your 



PREFACE. VU 

Health'' ''^ Bird Gossip" and "^ Paper of All Sorts" and 
seven miscellaneous poems, — all published in Harper; 
his " Fragments from an Unpublished Magazine^'' which 
appeared in the Democratic Review, in September^ October^ 
and December^ 1852; his series of sketches^ called '•'The 
Man about Town," begun in Harpers Weekly, and con- 
tinued in Frank H. Bellew's Picayune ; his dramatic re- 
views, contributed to the Saturday Press in 1858-59 ; a 
number of papers in the old series of Putnam ; many mis- 
cellaneous articles in the Home Journal, the Lantern, Van- 
ity Fair, and other papers ; more than twenty stories; 
and six plays. It is said that he began, and partly com- 
posed, a tragedy on the subject of Samson ; but I have not 
been able to find it. He undertook to write, for Leslie's 
Stars and Stripes, — a paper published, during about six 
mofiths, in 1859, — a romance entitled " The Scarlet Pet- 
ticoat"; but this has not been found. He began, in Bel- 
lew's Picayune, March 27th, 1858, a story called " From 
Hand to Mouth"; but he left it incomplete, and it was 
finished either by Bellew ('^Triangle"), or by Pool, his 
sub-editor. He wrote discursive articles on many subjects. 
He loas surprisingly apt at jest, and squib, and song. 
With a rare aptitude for literature, he possessed also an 
extraordinary faculty for journalism. I have traced his 
busy pen in many places. He was the most industrious 
idle man that ever I have known. 

It is more than eighteen years since O'Brien died. Many 
men who knew him and could have given information con- 
cerning him have, within that time, passed away. In 
making a memoir of him I have endeavored to augment my 
own imperfect tribute by adding to it the testimony of other 
writers. Mr. Thomas E. Davis, O'Brien's surviving ex- 
ecutor, Mr. Louis H. Stephens, the principal artist of 



VUl PEEFACE. 

Vanity Fair^ and Mr. Stephen Fishe, whose name in jour- 
nalism is a synonyme of sprightliness and dash, have 
generously enriched with their recollections the memorial 
pages which follow, I reprint, beside, a sketch of him by 
the beloved and lamented George Arnold, and an account 
of his military career that was written by Frank Wood, 
in the New York Leader, April 12th, 1862; and in this, 
as Wood was appointed one of his executors, there is a sort 
of fulfilment of the wishes of the dead. I have received 
encouragement in my task from Bellew, one of O'Brien's 
best friends and earliest associates in America ; from 
Aldrich, the poet, once his close companion ; from the 
learned, gracious, and kindly veteran of letters, Dr. R. 
Shelton Mackenzie ; from Mr. Thomas Powell, whose green 
old age delights in genial remembrance of the literary past ; 
from Dr. A. L. Carroll, who knew him well; and from 
Mr. J. W. Harper, Jr., whose friendship for the poet when 
he was living is now a fresh and tender memory, surviving 
all the years that have passed since he died. Mr. Stephens, 
furthermore, has been persuaded to paint, from memory, a 
portrait of O'Brien to embellish this volume ; and I pre- 
serve here a Dirge for O'Brien by the late Charles Dawson 
Shanly, — his friend and mine. Tenderly loved and deeply 
deplored, he too sleeps the long sleep of death. How deep 
had been his joy, if only he coidd have lived to take a per- 
sonal part in this commemoration of his brilliant country- 
man and cherished comrade! His dirge — as full of tears 
as of music — is a fitting ritual for the soldier poet. '^In 
death they are not divided.'' 

W. W, 
Fort Hill, New Brighton, Staten Island, 
October 12th, 1880. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Sketch of O'Brien, by William Winter xiii 

Dirge for O'Brien, by C. D. Shanly xiv 

Recollections op O'Brien. 

O'Brien in his Last Days, by Thomas E. Davis . . xxxi 
O'Brien as Poet and Soldier, by Frank Wood .... xxxvi 

O'Brien's Personal Characteristics, by George Arnold . xlvi 

O'Brien's Bohemian Days, by Stephen Fiske .... liv 

O'Brien as Journalist and Soldier, by Louis H. Stephens . lix 

POEMS. 

"^•Sir Brasirs Falcon 3 

Kane 16 

The Lost Steamship 20 

Fallen Star 23 

Vrhe Ballad of the Shamrock 28 

Amazon 31 

The Man at the Door 35 

The Enchanted Titan 37 

Loss 39 

Our Christmas Tree 42 

The Pot of Gold 45 

Minot's Ledge 48 

The Legend of Easter Eggs 50 

,. Down in the Glen at Idlewild 53 

Wanted — Saint Patrick 54 

-^sa^he Prize Fight 57 



1 



X CONTENTS. 

...,,^^ PAGE 

^^^^'^^Tlie Song of the Locomotive 61 

Irish Castles 64 

'*«»Loch Ine 65 

An April Day 66 

Jolinny 68 

The Skaters 71 

■^^The Demon of the Gibbet 73 

•*^he Wharf Rat 74 

The Havelock 75 

The Countersign 78 

The Zouaves 80 

i-A Soldier's Letter 83 

■^he Prisoner of War 86 

Winter 89 

The Sewing Bird 90 

A Summer Idyl 99 

•^By the Passaic 102 

The Three Gannets 104 

_ -vThe Sea 105 

Willy and I 106 

The Challenge 107 

When I came back from Sea 107 

An Old Story 110 

Helen Lee Ill 

X Strawberries 118 

Battledores 119 

•*g:he Finishing School 121 

X STORIES. 

"^The Diamond Lens 145 

N-The Wondersmith 177 

Tommatoo 224 

Mother of Pearl 257 

The Bohemian 281 

The Lost Room 309 

The Pot of Tulips 332 



CONTENTS. xi 



xVhe 



PAGE 

y^ii« Golden Ingot 355 

Wy Wife's Tempter 374 

\whatWasIt? 390 

Duke Humphrey's Dinner 408 

MillyDove 426 

The Dragon Fang . 454 



Appendix : Charles Dawson Shanly 481 




SKETCH OF O'BRIEN, 



BY THE EDITOR. 



' / count myself in nothing else so happy 
As in a soul rememVring my good friends." 

Shakespeaee. 



A DIEGE: 

IN MEMORY OF FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. \ 

Died, April 6, 1862. 

I. 



-/ 



Toll, hell, 

With solemn knell, 

For him who fell 

In the gallojnng fight ! 
Trumpets, ring 
To the dirge we sing vj" 

In our hearts that cling rv) 

Round the sjnrit so bright ! 
Roll, drum. 
As the vaulted tomb 
For his early doom 

Is gaping drearily ! 
Cold and dead. 
In his stony bed 

Lay him, who lately sang so cheerily ! 

II. 
Hush, hush ! 
The memories rush 
With imjietuous gush 

On heart and head: 
Speah low, — 
None of us know 
Half we forego 

In the gallant dead. 
Plant flowers. 
Not where April showers, 
But tears, like ours. 

Shall make them bloom, — 
And their breath impart 
To each kindred heart 
In the crypt of which 

Is thepoeVs tomb! 



Vanity Fair, April 19th, 1862. 



Charles Dawson Shanly. 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN 



That the facts of a man's life which can be stated are 
but poorly adequate to convey a full sense of what that 
life really was is a truth that receives additional illustra- 
tion in this imperfect biography. Yet this record is as 
nearly complete as careful research and conscientious 
labor can now make it. The more important part of the 
life of its subject was his intellectual and spiritual ex- 
perience. The history of his mind, however, is written 
in his works. It is only attempted, in this place, to set 
down the incidents of his career. 

Fitz-James O'Brien was born in the county of Lim- 
erick, Ireland, about the year 1828. His father was an 
attorney-at-law. His mother was a lady of remarkable 
beauty. He received a good education at Dublin Uni- 
versity. He was not trained, however, to either of 
the learned professions; but it is remembered that he 
claimed to have been at one time a soldier in the Brit- 
ish service. He very early evinced a taste and aptitude 
for writing verses; and among his first works are two 
poems, entitled " Loch Ine " and " Irish Castles," which 
appear, without an author's name, in " The Ballads of 
Ireland," collected and edited by Edward Hayes (1856). 
On leaving college he went up to London, where, in the 



XVI SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

course of about two years, he spent his inheritance, 
stated at eight thousand pounds. In 1851, according 
to a somewhat dubious report, he edited, in London, a 
periodical devoted to the AVorld's Fair. Late in that 
year, or early in 1852, he found it essential to seek his 
fortune in the New World. One of his friends was Dr. 
Collins, brother to the Roman Catholic Bishop of Cloyne, 
and through his influence O'Brien obtained letters of 
introduction, from Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, — then 
editor of a ne\vspaper in Liverpool, and correspondent 
for the New York Evening Star, — addressed to Major 
Noah, General George P. Morris, and other prominent 
citizens of the American capital. With these, on his 
arrival here, the adventurous young poet made an au- 
spicious entrance into society and literature ; and it was 
not long before his singularly brilliant abilities were 
recognized, and he became a general favorite. In that 
■way his American career began, which w-as destined, 
within the brief period of ten years, to be signalized by 
the production of some of the most original and beau- 
tiful poems and stories in tlie literature of his time, to 
flow through many painful vicissitudes and much trouble, 
and to end abruptly in a soldier's grave. 

The chronicle of his literary life must, necessarily, be 
discursive. It was' in no sense more eventful than 
such lives usually are, — except that it was more pain- 
fully irregular and more startlingly productive. His ear- 
liest writings here were published by John Brougham, in 
the Lantern. "When I first knew him," says his old 
comrade, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, " he was trimming the 
wick of the Lantern, which went out shortly afterwards." 
In that paper appeared, among other of his productions, 
the touching poem of "An Old Story," "The Ballad of 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xvii 

Sir Brown," " The Gory Gnome," and " The Wonderful 
Adventures of Mr. Papplewick." At one of Brougham's 
weekly dinners, in Windust's old place, near the original 
Park Theatre, — at which the writers and artists of his 
Laiitem were regularly convened, and at which every- 
thing but the paper was discussed, — O'Brien made the 
acquaintance of the artist and author, Mr. Frank H. Bel- 
lew, who became one of his intimate friends. The New 
York residences were, in those days, much further " down 
town" than they are now, and O'Brien and Bellew at one 
time lodged together in Leonard Street, and subsequently 
in Broadway, immediately opposite to what is now the 
Metropolitan Hotel, and on the site of the building after- 
wards locally famous as Stanwix Hall. That, of course, 
was the season of the light heart and the foaming flagon, 
when the chimes are heard at midnight and the bloom 
is on the rye. O'Brien's associations then were largely 
with the circles that eddied around Willis and Morris ; 
and at. that time he wrote a few sketches and verses 
for the Home Journal. His poem which I have named 
^' The Demon of the Gibbet " originally appeared in that 
paper, under the inexpressive title of '' What Befell." He 
contributed, also, in a fitful and miscellaneous way, to 
the Evening Post and to the New York Times ; and he 
wrote for the American Whig Review his " Fragments 
from an Unpublished Magazine." He was, in brief, a 
literary soldier of fortune ; and, with his expensive tastes 
and already settled habits of extravagance, it is needless 
to say that in time he found the Grub Street pathway 
an exceedingly weary road. 

The most important literary association that he ever 
formed was that which made him a regular contributor 
to Harper^ s Magazine. His first paper in that publication 

h 



xviii SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

appeared in the number for Februarj^, 1853, and is enti- 
tled " The Two Skulls." It is scientific and philosophical. 
He contributed to fifty-two numbers, and there are sixty- 
six of his productions in that periodical. His pen appears 
to have been in its most prolific period during the years 
1855, '56, and '57. His last paper in Harper, a story 
entitled " How I Overcame my Gravity," was not pub- 
lished till May, 1864, — more than two years after he 
was dead. He never saw in print, either, — for they also 
were posthumous publications, — his excellent story of 
" Tommatoo," or his sad poem of " Down in the Glen 
at Idlewild." He wrote copiously for Harper's Weekly, 
as well as for the Magazine. His noble ode on Kane 
was first printed in that journal, and there likewise 
first appeared his richly fanciful, inventive, picturesque 
poem of " The Zouaves," — a work which conspicu- 
ously illustrates his remarkable faculty for giving an im- 
aginative application to an idea or topic of the passing 
hour. He wrote stories, too, for Harjyer's Weekly, .2iX\A he 
wrote a series of familiar letters, called " The Man about 
Town," which, even at this distance of time, can be read 
with pleasure, for the liveliness of their spirit and the 
grace of their style. All this while he was writing, as 
capricious fancy prompted or as the spur of necessity com- 
pelled, in other quarters. The veteran James W. AVallack 
was one of his dearest friends, and for Wallack's theatre 
he wrote several bright little pieces, — spirited in idea, 
impetuous in spirit, and clean and polished in mechanism, 
— which were acted well, and which found a ready accep- 
tation. One of these, "A Gentleman from Ireland," still 
keeps the stage, and will long be found serviceable to the 
dashing light comedian. For Laura Keene's theatre, at 
the instance of Jefferson, — then its stage manager and 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xix 

principal actor, — he adapted one of Brough's burlesques; 
and this piece, under the title of *^The Tycoon," was pro- 
duced during the visit of the first Japanese Embassy to 
this country. He was possessed of a strong dramatic 
sense and had a good knowledge of the stage, — the latter 
having been acquired in his London days, — and, although 
he was inclined to push the theory of " natural " acting 
much too far, as may be seen in his tale of " Mother of 
Pearl," he could write with incisive judgment and inform- 
ing taste on the a,cted drama. He did so in the autumn 
of 1858, in the N'ew York Saturday Press; and one of 
his dramatic articles, in particular, — a disquisition upon 
the tragedy of " Hamlet," with Mr. Barry Sullivan as the 
melancholy Dane, — is remarkable equally for poetic in- 
telligence, acute analysis, and fine description. To Put- 
nam^ s Magazine — that noble monument to the exquisite 
taste of George William Curtis — he was a contributor 
in the first number and for several years ; and several of 
the gems of this collection have been taken from that 
source. He was a diligent writer for Vanity Fair, and 
from those sparkling columns are gathered his grisly fancy 
of " The "Wharf Rat," his athletic and sonorous " Song of 
the Locomotive," and his idyl of ''Strawberries." Two 
of his most remarkable stories belong to this period of 
nomadic labor, — " The Diamond Lens " and " The Won- 
dersmith," published in the Atlantic Monthly, in January, 
1858, and October, 1859. They electrified magazine 
literature, and they set up a model of excellence which, 
in this department, has made it better than it ever had 
been, in this country, before those tales were printed. 

O'Brien had a great admiration for the strange, wild, 
passionate genius of Matilda Heron ; and it once suited 
his fancy to travel, as a literary assistant, with H. L. 



XX SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

Bateman, — that iron-willed yet genial Boanerges of man- 
agers, — who ^^as then directing a professional tour for 
that actress. Miss Heron was acting in " Camille," which 
had but recently been introduced upon the American 
stage, and in a drama by Mrs. Bateman, entitled " Ger- 
aldine." On this trip O'Brien visited Boston, and he 
remained for some time in that city and its neighborhood ; 
and I remember that he considerably astonished some of 
the quiet literary circles of that staid and decorous region 
by his utter and unaffected irreverence for various cam- 
phorated figure-heads which were then an incubus upon 
American letters. It was there and then that I first 
met him, and first observed that stalwart mind and that 
formidable frankness of temperament for which he was 
remarkable. He was now considerably changed from 
what he had been when he came to America. Mental 
toil and bodily privation, the hardships of a gypsy life, 
the reactionary sense of being in false positions and -^f 
being misunderstood, — which often will embitter natural 
sweetness and turn amiability to proud and glittering de- 
fiance, — had done their work upon his nature, and made 
him, in some of his moods, as lawless, arrogant, and tru- 
culent, as in others he was gentle, resigned, affectionate, 
and almost forlorn. In his face and carriage there was 
the strong and splendid freedom of the wild woods ; yet 
at times there came into his eyes a weary look of unrest, 
,and a quite indescribable light of dangerous, half-slum- 
bering wrath, — as of a soul that was a hunted vagabond 
standing sentinel over its own desolation. T was attracted 
toward him by a profound sympathy, and we became 
comrades and friends, and so remained to the end. I 
have heard that, when he first established himself in New 
York, he dwelt in comfortable quarters and surrounded 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxi 

himself with appliances of luxury. His raiment was 
superb ; his library was excellent ; his furniture was taste- 
ful; and, like De Mauprat, he was " splendid in banquets." 
His personal appearance in those days — before, as hap- 
pened in June, 1858, his nose had been broken by the 
blow of a pugilist — was singularly attractive. He had 
a fair and glowing complexion, and waving brown hair; 
his eyes were gray -blue, large, brilliant, and expressive ; 
his smile was honest and sweet, and his countenance 
frank and winning; he was of the middle stature, an 
athlete in person, and he moved with negligent grace. 
His voice was rich in quality, loud and clear, and he had 
a bluff and breezy manner of speech, tending at times to 
a joyous turbulence. In a general way he retained these 
characteristics ; but at the time of our companionship he 
had emerged from his condition of elegance, and his for- 
tunes were low. He had no property; he was at variance 
with many old acquaintances ; his face had suffered dis- 
figurement ; he lived nowhere in particular ; and he was 
thoroughly well acquainted with hard times. I found 
him, in those gypsy days, a delightful associate. His 
animal spirits were prodigious. His literary invention 
was alert, vigorous, and almost incessant. His enjoyment 
of the passing hour was so keen, that it gave a zest to 
the enjoyment of all around him. No matter how close 
poverty might pinch, or how dark the clouds might lower 
over the portal of the future, the laugh of O'Brien blew 
care away from the cup of life, as the foam is blown from 
the white caps of the sea. 

His habits of literary composition, as will be surmised, 
were erratic. A man less buoyant than he would have 
been paralyzed by the hardships through which he drift- 
ed and labored. But, amid chaos or tempest, he was 



xxii SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

always seeing, always thinking, always at work. Perhaps 
he liked best to drift in the sunshine and to make merry 
with genial companions; but he could nerve himself 
to effort when the occasion demanded it, and he could 
execute prodigious tasks with amazing celerity. Times 
of indolence and times of tremendous exertion check- 
ered his life along the whole of its course. He was not 
a fluent writer, because he thought deeply, and wrote 
logically, and was fastidious in taste ; but his creative lit- 
erary impulse was exceedingly strong, and his feeling was 
earnest. He possessed an ample and ready command of 
the resources of literary art, his mind was replete with 
what it had absorbed in hours of apparent idleness, and 
he worked with relentless purpose and absorbing zeal. 
In this way it chanced that he could accomplish a for- 
midable task in a surprisingly short time, yet always 
deliver his work rounded and finished as if with the scru- 
pulous labor of weeks. His poem of " A Fallen Star," 
for example, was written in my lodging, between mid- 
night and morning, at one sitting, and he left the original 
draft upon the table, having made a clean copy of it for 
the press. A fac-simile of a page of that manuscript is 
given in this volume, and it strikingly reveals the care 
with which he wrote. His poem of " The Sewing Bird " 
was also written in my lodging, within the course of two 
nights, and I have kept the pen with which it was written, 
as a relic of a remarkable effort. I never saw him so 
deeply depressed as he was then, — and with good reason, 
for he was destitute, cheerless, and hungry; and when- 
ever that was his case he would not share with a com- 
rade, and even when food was left in his way he would 
not take it. He sold " The Sewing Bird " for one hun- 
dred dollars, and a few hours later he was as merry as a 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxiii 

brook in spring-time. One of his favorite haunts was 
the old Hone house, in Broadway, at the southeast cor- 
ner of Great Jones Street ; and there, under very similar 
circumstances, in the course of an evening, he produced 
the ringing poem of " The Lost Steamship." His story 
of " What Was It 1 " was written at odd moments, in the 
lodging of his friend Aldrich, in Clinton Place. These 
details have a trivial sound, but somehow they help to 
give a lifelike picture of the man, • — • displaying, back of 
the strange circumstances under which his literature was 
produced, the still stranger nature that produced it. 

The burden laid upon the poet is, that he must feel 
and express the great and varied elemental passions of 
humanity, yet never himself depart from the perfect 
poise of a sane and decorous life. All literary history is 
the narrative of his endeavor, with a greater or less de- 
gree of failure, to achieve this perfect result. All literary 
criticism abounds in censure of him because — being a 
man and not a god — he falls short of his object. Yet 
through the everlasting march of the ages he still strives 
onward ; still obeys his inexorable fate ; still tries to utter 
for all mankind the voice of the universal heart ; and 
still, amid the flying echoes of his own celestial music, he 
may stray into sin and sorrow, he may faint and falter by 
the way, and so drop into a lamentable grave. O'Brien 
was in no wise more successful than some others of his 
kind. He fulfilled his destiny as well as he could. The 
attrition of his character with his circumstances devel- 
oped faults and impelled to errors. He was, personally, 
very far from being a perfect creature. He was not 
deficient in moral sense ; on the contrary, his perception 
of right and wrong was uncommonly keen ; but he was 
deficient in moral courage and in stability of principle, 



xxiv SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

and what was originally noble in his moral nature had 
been to some extent marred, though not spoiled, by con- 
viviality and chronic improvidence. His conduct was 
never intentionally wrong, but it was sometimes marked 
by a heedless irregularity in the ordinary affairs of life, 
such as, to many persons, is almost as culpable as bad 
intention. He knew this, and his realization of it only 
enraged him against his own defects. He w^as at times 
haughty and combative ; partly because of his Hibernian 
blood, and partly, no doubt, because of his resentful con- 
viction that he deserved — by his powers, his achieve- 
ments, and the possibilities of his mind and future — a 
higher position in literature than had ever been accorded 
to him. But, so far as I ever could learn, his faults and 
errors did serious injury to no one but himself; while for 
the creation of literature he was, in the hands of Fate, 
a magnificent instrument. There was such a breezy au- 
dacity in his genius, that, thinking of him after all these 
years, I feel a thrill of barbaric joy, as if youth itself were 
come back. He was like a giant oak, responsive to the 
midnight gale, and exultant in its rage. He was like 
the ocean swept by the tempest, that answers with clarion 
tumult and savage delight. He never paltered with life, 
nor fawned on the tedious little self-constituted poten- 
tates with whom the avenues of society are infestedJ 
He did not approach literature with timid deprecation/ 
but he fronted his work royally, and he performed itl 
He spoke his mind, and he neither valued life nor feared 
death. Thus constituted, — sensitive to the grandest 
influences of nature and the tenderest touch of art, — 
the mystic spirit that is in creation could play upon him 
at its will, and sound what stops it pleased. Time, no 
doubt, would have improved this organ of the Muse, — 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxv 

would have broadened and mellowed its tones, and made 
it vocal with yet more heavenly emotion. The noble 
instrument was too soon broken; the life that promised 
so much was too soon quenched in the darkness of the 
grave. Nevertheless, in what was uttered — and is now 
preserved— there lives a rich and buoyant power, and a 
wonderful soul of beauty. Here, garnered in his pages, 
are rich creations of the imagination, splendid or som- 
bre pictures, original conceptions of character, rare bits of 
description, fine strokes of analysis of life, strong paeans 
of joy, and sad wails of grief. Here is the eloquent and 
beautiful manifestation of a genius, broad in its scope, 
affluent in its tide, adequate in its strength, brilliant 
in its splendor, gentle and humane in its teaching and 
influence. Such works are the best interpreters of their 
own beneficence. There is no end and no measure to 
the good that literature accomplishes when, through the 
ministration of beauty, it helps to free our souls from 
the hard conditions under which life is imposed upon the 
human race. 

The venerable Shelton Mackenzie, in a gracious and 
tender letter, responsive to inquiries of mine, refers to 
O'Brien's death, in these words : "To die on the field of 
honor, under the flag of his adopted country, was just 
the doom his gallant spirit would have craved." It was 
the doom reserved for him, and he met it bravely and 
well. He was a lover of liberty and the rights of man, 
and a stanch, unfaltering advocate of the principle of 
Union in the American Republic. When the war broke 
out, in 1861, accordingly, he joined the Seventh Regiment 
of the National Guard of New York, in the hope of bemg 
sent to the front, and he was in camp with that regiment 
atAVashington for six weeks. "A brilliant, dashmg fel- 



xxvi SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

low," writes Colonel Emmons Clark, " very brave, and a 
universal favorite. He never in any way did anything to 
hurt the good name of the regiment. He held the rank 
of Captain, and is so entered on our regimental roll of 
honor." When the Seventh came home he left it and 
for a time was occupied in gathering recruits for a volun- 
teer regiment, to be called the McClellan Rifles. He 
subsequently received an appointment on the staff of 
General Lander,'^ and at once repaired to the scene of 
conflict in Virginia. His period of active military service 
was brief, but lie distinguished himself by energy and 
valor. On the 26th of February, 1862, in a skirmish 
with Colonel Ashley's cavalry, he was shot, and severely 
wounded. He lingered till the 6th of April, when he 
died. His death occurred at Cumberland, Virginia. His 
body was brought home, and buried with military honors. 

* There is but a meagre and imperfect record, at the War Depart- 
ment, in Washington, (though a strictly official one, and no doubt 
correct as far as it goes,) of O'Brien's miUtary career. T. B. Aldrich 
and O'Brien applied at nearly the same time for a place on General 
Lander's staflf. The application of Aldrich — an old friend of Gen- 
eral Lander's — was a few days in advance of that of O'Brien. 
General Lander sent a telegram to Aldrich, at Portsmouth, N. H., 
offering to him a staff appointment, with the rank of Lieutenant. 
In the meanwhile, Aldrich had left Portsmouth, and the telegram 
remained there, unopened and unregarded. Thereupon General 
Lander, receiving no answer, gave the post to O'Brien, who shortly 
afterwards was killed. Old Henry Clapp used dryly to say that 
"Aldrich was shot in O'Brien's shoulder." 

That O'Brien received this appointment is certain ; but, being 
already in the field, he was not formally mustered in, and he was 
killed before his commission had been signed : hence the meagreness 
of the official record at the War Department. Writing from " Camp 
Kelly," Virginia, January 21st, 1862, to his friend Mr. Thomas E. 
Davis, O'Brien says : " I am in harness, and am staff officer of pa- 
rade, and am already intrusted with the rather arduous but important 



SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxvii 

The last time I saw him in life he took from my hand a 
coj)y of Shirley Brooks's novel of " The Silver Cord." He 
was going to the front. The next time I saw him he 
was in his coffin. The silver cord had been loosed, and 
the stormy heart of the poet-soldier was at rest. Even in 
death his countenance wore its old expression of defiant 
endurance. His funeral was held in the armory of the 
Seventh Regiment. The silver-haired veteran Wallack, 
leaning on Lester's arm, his pale, handsome face wet 
with tears, stood beside the bier; and round them were 
clustered many of O'Brien's comrades, now likewise dead 
and gone. With muffled drums and martial dirges we 
bore him to Greenwood Cemetery, and there a guard of 
honor fired its volley over his tomb, and, with a few 
flowers from the loving hand of poor Matilda Heron, we 
left him forever. There his ashes still rest ; * and there, 

duty of posting the pickets all through this devil of a wilderness. 
Address to me always as A. D. C, General Lander's Brigade." 

" My impression is," writes General McClellan, "that Mr. O'Brien 
served with Lander as a vohmteer aid." This in the absence of a 
regular commission would be his rank. He gave his life without 
price. 

In the New American Cydopmdia, annual volume, for 1862, on 
page 543, occurs the following reference to the exploit at Bloomery 
Gap, in which O'Brien particijjated : "In this brilHant dash the 
Confederate commander and his staff surrendered to General Lander, 
who, with a single aid, had outridden the rest of the force, and, 
coming upon them at full gallop, demanded their swords." The 
"single aid" was O'Brien. — Ed. 

* The remains of O'Brien were placed, at first, in the receiving 
tomb at Greenwood, but on November 27, 1874, were removed and 
buried in the earth. His grave is number 1183, in lot number 
17,263, in that cemetery. At the funeral of O'Brien, Frank Wood, 
T. B. Aldrich, Edward F. Mullen (the quaint, original artist of 
Vanity Fair), and I rode in a coach together, and Wood (now 
dead) carried O'Brien's sword. — Ed. 



xxviii SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 

in time to come, will many a pilgrim to the shrine of 
genius and of noble valor lay the chaplet of remembrance 
on the grave of Fitz-James O'Brien. 



WILLIAM WINTER. 



Fort Hill, New Brighton, Staten Island, 
October 19th, 1880. 




RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

BY SEVERAL WRITERS. 



I remember him well ; and I remember Mm worthy of thy 
praise" 

Shakespeare. 



O'BEIEN IN HIS LAST DAYS. 



My dear Winter : — 

An effort to rescue O'Brien's name, with honor, from 
obhvion, interests me immensely, and I am confident 
that such a work, undertaken by you, will successfully 
realize its promise. It would give me great pleasure 
to bring to you all the papers that I possess referring 
to O'Brien, and to talk over our friend with you. Your 
letter, advising me of your project, was forwarded to my 
address at Paris, and has just been returned to me here. 
You have my heartiest sympathy in the work that you 
have undertaken, and I rejoice that it will at last be 
accomplished. 

Shortly after O'Brien's death I consulted with my asso- 
ciate executor, Frank Wood, as to the course of action 
proper for us to pursue ; and it was agreed that, as he was 
more devoted than I to literary pursuits, all of O'Brien's 
papers that were possessed by me should be given to him, 
and he should write a memoir, and make a selection of the 
writings for publication, subject to my approval. I gave 
to him thereupon everything of O'Brien's that I then 
had, — even private letters. My reliance on his ability 
to do this work was complete, and no doubt he would 
have done it had he lived. Ill-health came upon me 
shortly after this, and drove me to Europe, and I never 



xxxii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

heard of him again — except the news of his death. I 
have been for many years a resident abroad, and occu- 
pied by engrossing duties. I have made many and ear- 
nest inquiries as to the fate of the papers delivered 
to Wood, but could never ascertain what befell them. 
Among them w^as O'Brien's last letter, written to me 
on his death-bed. 

While I was in Europe I met O'Brien's mother (Mrs. 
De Courcy O'Grady, she having married again, some time 
after the death of O'Brien's father, and when O'Brien 
w^as still a lad), and she expressed great affection for her 
lost boy, and deep interest in the idea of publishing his 
works. I intimated to her — as you have intimated to 
me — that, in case the book should succeed, a suitable 
monument would be erected over O'Brien's grave. I 
am glad you have this design in view. My path has 
been strewn with difficulties, and you are doing me a real 
service in taking up this work. 

My knowledge of O'Brien was confined to the latter 
part of his life. He and I were engaged in raising a 
regiment, to be known as the McClellan Rifles, and we 
made a good start in this business; but I found myself 
unable to bear the exposure of the camp, and so left the 
affair to him. He was about this time involved in what 
might have proved a serious trouble, — though he was 
entirely in the right. He was attacked by an inferior 
officer, absent without leave from camp, and he was com- 
pelled, in self-defence, to fire upon him ; and the man — 
a mutinous, abusive, dangerous person — was hurt, but 
ultimately he recovered. O'Brien lived in my house, at 
Staten Island, for some time after this event, and it was 
there that he wrote his poem of "A Soldier's Letter," 
which he read to me just after completing it. 



HIS LAST DAYS. xxxiii 

I never enjoyed anything more than hearing him read 
his own writings. He was truly a manly fellow, an in- 
tensely live man, in look, bearing, and manner : yet on 
these occasions he would become subdued to such exquisite 
softness by the deep pathos of his words, — arousing the 
delicate, womanly sensibility which formed a large part of 
his hidden character, — that you neither saw nor heard 
the every-day man. In person he was just above the 
middle height, strong, and well made. His eyes were) 
blue ; the lids hung mournfully over them, giving them I 
that peculiarly melancholy appearance which has often \ 
been ascribed to those who are destined to a violent death./ 
When he was excited and in good spirits this expression 
w^ould disappear, and his eyes w^ould dance with glee. 
He had led a wandering life in New" York before I knew 
him, and his carelessness in worldly matters had alienated 
the good opinion of persons who would gladly have been 
his friends. Before he went on what proved his death- 
trip to General Lander, he promised that on his return 
he would settle down with me, and devote himself to the 
production of something in literature that might live. 
He had " a great work," he said, prepared in his mind, 
which he had " thought out through years of thinking," 
and this he would write when his soldiering was over. 

There was an exceedingly humorous side to O'Brien's 
character, — his Celtic alacrity for combat being not the 
least comic of his peculiarities. Donald McLeod, author 
of " Pynnshurst," w^as once O'Brien's comrade, and they 
slept in the same bed. One night, just after they had 
retired, a fierce discussion arose between them with ref- 
erence to Scotch and Irish nationality, and O'Brien 
uttered opinions which his Scotch companion could not 
brook. ' " I '11 not allow this," cried McLeod. '' Do as 



XXXIV RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

you please about that," said O'Brien. " I '11 demand sat- 
isfaction, sir ! " roared McLeod. '' Very well," answered 
Fitz-James, — equally enraged and belligerent, and pull- 
ing the blanket well over himself, — " very well, sir ; you 
know where to find me in the morning." This last explo- 
sion, though, intended in deadly sincerity, had the effect 
of turning the quaiTcl to laughter, and so made an end 
of it. 

O'Brien, at one time, began to collect his scattered writ- 
ings, with a view to their publication in a volume ; and he 
made a title-page and a list of pieces. He liked his story 
of "The Golden Ingot" and his unfinished ballad of "Amy 
Scudder." I have seen two plays of his in manuscript, 
entitled " The Two Ophelias," and " Blood will Tell." He 
was proficient in the French language, and, in particular, 
he habitually read every French ])]n,j that appeared. His 
learning, with reference to many subjects, seemed ample 
and minute, and when he chose to speak of literary affairs 
he enthralled the listener with his eloquence. There was 
great sweetness in his nature, and under happier circum- 
stances his life, 1 think, would have been free from those 
asperities and blemishes which caused him to be much 
censured. He w^as a devoted patriot, and he went into 
the war with ardent zeal. When he was leaving New 
York to join General Lander, we dined together, and 
parted for the last time. " I can say nothing to you," he 
said, " but you know where my heart is." I did, — and it 
was in the right place. 

He died at the home of Mr. George A. Thurston, at 
Cumberland, Maryland, April 6th, 1862, — seven weeks 
after he received his death-wound in battle. He bore his 
illness well and met his death with fortitude. Mr. Thurs- 
ton, from whom he received every kindness, wrote to me. 




O'Brien Recruiting. 

From a Caricature by Mullen in " Vanity Fair." 



HIS LAST DAYS. xxxv 

April 1st, as follows : "Mr. O'Brien was this morning seized 
with tetanus, and, though so far the symptoms are mild, 
he yet is so reduced physically by his long illness and the 
painful character of his wound that we have cause to fear 
he cannot recover. He is aware of his danger, and meets it 
in the most manly way ; indeed he has never been hopeful 
from the first. I write to his mother to-day, advising her 
of his danger, and the causes which led to it, and I think 
this should have been done long since. But he was so 
averse to her knowing anything of the trouble that he 
would neither write himself nor permit any one to write 
for him." A little later Mr. Thurston wrote again, an- 
nouncing the end : " We did all in our power for the 
poor fellow, and in fact I may say we were fortunate 
enough to give him everything that he desired or his sur- 
geons suggested." I was on my way to him when he 
died, and I brought home his remains from Baltimore. 
This leaf is all I can add to the garland you are weaving 
for our departed friend. 

Very sincerely yours, 

THOMAS E. DAVIS. 

No. 82 Nassau Street, New York, 
October 22d, 1880. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 



O'BEIEN AS POET AND SOLDIER* 



It is with a heart heavy laden that I sit down to write 
of the friend who is gone. The feeUng that one whom 
we have loved will never look upon us in life again sel- 
dom comes save when the last mournful tributes to the 
departed have been paid, and the door of the charnel- 
house is closed forever upon him. And especially is 

* This tribute to O'Brien was lirst published in the Neiu York 
Leader, April 12th, 1862, having been written for that paper by its 
author, who had been appointed one of the poet's literary executors, 
and who, had he lived, would have fulfilled, with all his heart, the 
task that has been attempted by me in this volume. Frank Wood 
died, in 1864, at the age of twenty-three years. His career as a 
writer began in Bellew's Picayune, and in the publications of 
Frank Leslie. He subsequently became the first editor of Vanity 
Fair, and one of the contributors to the Saturday Press ; and 
he wrote in the Leader a series of sketches of the pulpit orators 
of New York. At a later period, and just before South Carolina 
revolted against the Union, he resided at Charleston, as correspond- 
ent for the IForldi On his return he delivered a lecture, entitled 
"Down South in Secession Times," and he edited a daily paper in 
Brooklyn. Still later he wrote theatrical notices for the Tlhistrated 
News, and during about six months occupied the position of night 
editor of the Journal of Commerce. For a time also he was a 
dramatic critic for the Spirit of the Times. Nor did he confine 
his labors exclusively to journalism. He was the translator of 
Michelet's "L' Amour." His burlesque of "Leah the Forsook" 



AS POET AND SOLDIER. xxxvu 

this so in the case of O'Brien. He was such a live man 
that it is hard to think of him as dead. We who were 
his friends could scarcely realize, at first, that the bright 
and genial nature had been blotted out of existence, and 
we would not see the dark shadow that had crept in 
where before the sunshine fell. The truth comes to us 
now with a double bitterness. The cheerful face, the 
good, kind heart, the brilliant wit that was a part of him, 
have all gone from us, never to return. 

The biography of our friend cannot be fully written 
now, and I reserve the honorable task for a future day, 
purposing here to give the merest outline of his literary 
career and pass to the military experiences which marked 
the last year of his life. 

Fitz-James O'Brien was born in Ireland, in the year 
1830.* His family was one of the highest in the land. 

is remembered as a clever piece of its kind. He wrote also a 
burlesque caUed " The Statue Bride," and he was one of the adapt- 
ers of " Taming a Butterfly." As a writer, he was clear, vigor- 
ous, often humorous, always manly and truthful. As a man, he 
met frankness with frankness, and did his duty faithfully, and 
gained true friends who do not forget him. He was taken away 
in the spring-time of his life, and the promise of his young days 
is therefore a tender memory. His name is added to those of other 
vanished comrades, — Symonds, Wilkins, O'Brien, Neill, and the 
rest, — not to be spoken without a sigh of regret. His death took 
place at Haverstraw, Rockland County, New York, and his grave 
is at Auburn, where he was born. 

" Like clouds that rake the mountain summits. 
Or waves that own no curbing band. 
How fast has brother followed brother, 

From sunshine to the sunless land ! " — Ed. 

* This would make him but thirty-two when he died. The 
general impression in our circle was that he was older. I do not 
know whether Wood had positive authority for this date. He was 



xxxviii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

Fitz-James was a cousin of the present Lord Fermoy, 
and was also related to the distinguished Irish patriot, 
Smith O'Brien. The boy never had brothers or sisters, 
and was left a half-orphan, when about twelve years of 
age, by the death of his father. After a considerable 

somewhat mistaken, according to my information, with reference to 
O'Brien's family and early life, and first attempts in literature. The 
statement that the poet was related to Smith O'Brien, the Irish 
agitator, was first published by the late Charles F. Briggs, in the 
New York Times, and it was coupled with the equally erroneous 
assertion that Fitz-James was heir to the title and estate of Lord 
Inchiquin, Smith O'Brien's brother. When Smith O'Brien was in 
New York, Fitz-James did not call on him ; and, as I am informed 
by Mr. Bellew, that visitor stated, in answer to a direct inquiry, that 
Fitz-James was not in any way related to him. The fact is, I 
believe, that this was a hoax ; and it may have been invented 
by O'Brien's satirist, Mr. William North, author of "The Man of 
the World," etc., who lampooned him under the name of Fitz-Gam- 
mon 0' Bouncer. Or it may have originated with Mr. Briggs him- 
self, who disliked O'Brien with all that cordiality of sentiment 
of which he was so capable. O'Brien's title of "Baron Inchiquin," 
I remember, was a joke among his acquaintances. I never heard 
him speak of the subject. There is a story that, when on his 
death-bed, he received a costly jewel labelled, ** From the Baroness 
of Inchiquin." It was no doubt part of the same folly. Mr. 
Briggs said, in the presence of Dr. Mackenzie, that O'Brien, in 
conversation with him, had claimed to have been an officer in 
the Guards. This, I surmise, was either a misunderstanding on 
the part of Mr. Briggs, or a bit of serious waggery on the part of 
O'Brien, who liked to amuse himself by ascertaining how much 
certain solemn persons would believe. Thus, on one occasion, 
at table in the Manhattan Club, when the overwhelming Count 
Gurowski was shouting forth his knowledge of court etiquette, 
O'Brien dissented from that nobleman's views, and was promptly 
challenged for his authority by the growling and spluttering diplo- 
matist. To this he replied, with entire gravity, " I was for several 
months a resident at the Court of St. James, as maid of honor to 
the Queen." — Nor was O'Brien related to Lord Fermoy. — Ed. 



AS POET AND SOLDIER. xxxix 

time his mother married again, and became Mrs. DeCourcy 
O'Grady. 

In the fulness of time Fitz-James was sent to Trinity 
College, Dublin, where he acquired that solid education 
that served him in such good stead afterwards. Shortly 
after his graduation he came to New York, where he 
made his first essay in literature, in the shape of an arti- 
cle for the Lantern, a comic journal edited by John 
Brougham. Brongham saw that O'Brien was a valuable 
man to have on the Lantern staff, and the young author, 
before he had time to recover from the surprise his suc- 
cess caused him, was engaged as a regular contributor 
to the paper. When the Lantern expired, O'Brien was 
tendered a position as editorial writer on the Times, by 
Mr. Raymond, who appreciated his genius from the first. 
While connected with the Times O'Brien wrote for the 
various periodicals of the day, — Harper's Magazine, 
Putnam's Monthly, etc., — contributing to them some of 
his finest tales and poems. In the Atlantic Monthly, 
during the first year of its existence, he published his 
marvellous story, '' The Diamond Lens," which holds its 
place now in literature (and ever will), as one of the most 
extraordinary creations of imagination. He was more 
constant in his contributions to Harper^s Magazine than 
to any other periodical, and wrote for it, during the year 
past, the finest poems (with one exception) that have 
been written relative to the present war. I need only re- 
fer to the titles of some of these, such as "The Counter- 
sign," "A Soldier's Letter," and " The Prisoner of War," 
to bring every one to my opinion in this matter, O'Brien's 
ready wit and large sense of humor also found a field in 
the columns of Vanity Fair, and the last article he ever 
wrote was printed in that paper. 



xl RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

It was with a presentiment as to the tarn secession 
would take, that, in January, 1861, O'Brien joined the 
New York Seventh Regiment. Three months later he 
marched off in its ranks to the defence of Washington, 
and, on arriving there, wrote the most graphic narrative 
of that memorable expedition extant. When the month 
for which they volunteered had expired, it will be re- 
membered, there was a division of sentiment in the regi- 
ment, as to the question of coming home. O'Brien was 
very decidedly among those who desired to stay, but 
other counsels prevailed, and the Seventh came back to 
New York. Rendered, as it were, more thirsty than 
ever by this sip from the cup of martial life, O'Brien, 
immediately on his return, interested himself, with some 
of his comrades, in the formation of a volunteer regi- 
ment, in which he himself was to hold the post of Cap- 
tain. But at this time the people's first patriotic spasm 
had passed, the Union army seemed to have as many 
men as was necessary, and recruits to the new regi- 
ment came in but slowly. The enterprise languished, 
and O'Brien left the regiment to join another which 
promised better, but which was in its turn abandoned. 
In this manner the summer and part of the fall were 
passed. All this time O'Brien was chafing like a caged 
eagle. Sick, finally, of these vexatious delays, and ■ im- 
patient for active service in the field, he gave up all idea 
of going with a complete regiment to the war, and went 
to Washington to get, if possible, a position on some 
general's staff. In this he was at first unsuccessful. He 
now returned to New York as disconsolate as it was pos- 
sible for one of his sunny nature to be. At last, in Jan- 
uary of the present year (1862), a summons came from 
General Lander containing the much desired appoint- 



■^^ 



AS POET AND SOLDIER. xli 



ment. O'Brien was instantly lifted from the depths of 
melancholy to the acme of joy. The next day he set 
out for Lander's department, happy and joyfal, and after 
many tribulations and difficulties succeeded in reaching 
his command. O'Brien's dashing energy and brilliant 
soldierly qualities soon endeared him to the General, 
whose death a nation has since mourned. 

At the battle of Bloomery Gap he rendered I^ander a 
valuable assistance. In the intention of surprising the 
enemy, Lander moved seven regiments and five hun- 
dred cavalry on the Gap, about fourteen miles from 
his own camp, during the night. They arrived on the 
ground at five o'clock the next morning, but for some 
hours there was no sign of the rebels. Every one was 
in despair, when an action began in the rear of the 
column. Lander jumped upon his horse, O'Brien did 
the same, and the two rode off" like the wind toward 
the scene of battle. As they flew down the road, an 
ambuscade on the left opened on them, when the Gen- 
eral immediately dashed up a hill, calling for some 
sixty cavalry to follow him. Through fear or from a 
misapprehension of the order only two obeyed. Lander, 
O'Brien, and these two men charged up the hill, in the 
face of a deadly rifle fire, and cut the ambuscade off". 
The General captured the rebel Colonel Baldwin, while 
Captain Baird, Assistant Adjutant-General of the Six- 
teenth Brigade, and attached to General Carson's stafl", 
with eight others, surrendered to O'Brien, who kept the 
Captain's sword and accoutrements as trophies. The 
general engagement lasted about an hour, and resulted 
in the capture of sixty-one prisoners, seventeen of whom 
were officers. For the bravery displayed in this aflair, 
General Lander made special and honorable mention 



xlii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

oPLieutenant O'Brien in his despatch to General Mc- 
Clellan. 

Two days after this, on the 16th of February, O'Brien 
■was sent out at four o'clock in the morning, with a cav- 
alry company, to capture a hundred head of cattle be- 
longing to the secessionists. The expedition resulted 
in a skirmish with the enemy, in which O'Brien's little 
force of thirty -five cavalry was pitted against one hundred 
and fifty rebel infantry and sixty of Jackson's regular 
cavalry. The enemy fell upon our advance from behind 
a bluff, and the advance came galloping back to the main 
body, after having fired a few random shots. Nothing 
daunted by the enemy's superiority in numbers, our young 
lieutenant immediately charged upon them with his men, 
who were a little irresolute, as there was a cross-fire from 
the hillside, in addition to the cavalry fire from the road. 
As they rode forward, the rebel officer held up his hand 
and cried, " Halt ! who are you 1 " O'Brien shouted back 
in reply, " Union soldiers ! " and fired at him. This was 
the signal for a general engagement. The rebels could 
easily have captured so small a party ; but O'Brien's on- 
slaught was so audacious that they thought he must have 
reserves somewhere. As it was, our side came off un- 
harmed (with one exception), having killed two of the 
enemy, and wounded four. 

The exception was O'Brien. His encounter with the 
rebel colonel, Ashley, was a regular duel. They were 
about twenty paces asunder, and fired, with great delibera- 
tion, three shots ; O'Brien was hit by the second shot, 
and his men aver that he killed Ashley with his last, as 
that officer fell when he fired. The ball passed com- 
pletely through O'Brien's left shoulder, splintering his 
scapular bone. • Although wounded he still continued to 



AS POET AND SOLDIER. xliii 

rally his men, until a subordinate officer, seeing him reel- 
ing in his saddle from loss of blood, got him to the rear, 
after which he brought oar men off. In a state of weak- 
ness and agony, O'Brien was now obliged to ride twenty- 
four miles, but he passed through the ordeal like a hero. 
His gratification may be conceived when, the next day, 
there came the following despatch from General McClel- 
lan : — 

" General Lander, — Please say to Lieutenant O'Brien 
that I am much pleased with his gallantry, and deeply 
pained to hear of his wound. I trust he will soon be 
well enough to give the cause the benefit of his services 
agaiu. George B. McClellan." 

The surgeon who took charge of O'Brien at first did not 
consider the wound a dangerous one, and the poor fellow 
wrote to his friends here about it in the most cheerful 
strain, saying he should be able to come to New York 
in twenty days at the outside. But the twenty days 
passed, and he did not come. Still the letters were as 
cheerful as ever, and no one apprehended evil from the 
delay. On Friday, the 4th of April, Mr. Thomas E. 
Davis received the first news of the alarming change 
that had taken place, in a pencil scribble from O'Brien 
himself. On the same day came a more despondent letter 
from Mr. George A. Thurston, of Cumberland, Maryland, 
the gentleman at whose house O'Brien lay through his 
long illness. It seems that the first surgeon (named 
Maccabe) had wholly mistaken the character of his pa- 
tient's wound. On the 20th of March, a surgeon of 
ability took O'Brien's case in hand, and on examination 
found that the joint of the arm at the shoulder had 
been smashed into a hundred fragments. A resection 



xliv RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

of the joint, one of the most difficult and dangerous 
operations in surgery, was the only resource. In his 
letter (to Mr. Davis) O'Brien says : — 

" I gave up the ghost, and told him to go ahead. There 
were about twelve surgeons to witness the operation. All 
my shoulder bone and a portion of my upper arm have 
been taken away. I nearly died. My breath ceased, 
heart ceased to beat, pulse stopped. However, I got 
through. I am not yet out of danger from the opera- 
tion, but a worse disease ha.s set in. I have got tetanus, 
or lock-jaw. There is a chance of my getting out of it, — 
that 's all. In case I don't, good-by, old fellow, with all 
my love. I don't want to make any legal document, but 
I desire that you and Frank Wood should be my literary 
executors, — because after I 'm dead I may turn out a 
bigger man than when living.* I 'd write more if I could, 
but I 'm very weak. Write to me. I may be alive. 
Also, get Wood to write." 

On the day after the receipt of this intelligence, 
Mr. Davis and I started in an early morning train for 
Cumberland. Arrived at Baltimore, we learned to our 
dismay that no train would leave for Cumberland within 
the next twenty-four hours. We immediately telegraphed 
to Mr. Thurston, who answered: "O'Brien is very low. 
He is glad you are coming." 

The next morning, Sunday, (as we afterwards learned 
from Drs. Folsom and MacMahon, the surgeons who were 
with him at the last,) O'Brien felt a little better than 

* This calls to mind the bitter words of Walter Savage Landor, 
in his "Examination of Shakespeare": — "The worms must have 
eaten us before it is rightly shown what we are. It is only when 
we are skeletons that we are boxed, and ticketed, and prized, and 
shown. " — Ed. 



AS POET AND SOLDIER. xlv 

usual, and, being helped up, sat for a time on the side of 
his bed. Dr. MacMahon asked him if he would take a 
glass of sherry. O'Brien said, ''Yes." While slowly 
sipping the sherry he turned pale and fell back. The 
doctors immediately dashed cologne-water in his face, and 
began to fan him. But it was too late. His features 
were set in death. 

So died, at the threshold of his career, a true poet and 
a brave soldier, — a man of such a kindly and charming 
nature that he was beloved even by his enemies. God 
grant that the tidings be taken tenderly to the lone 
mother, looking anxiously, even at this moment mayhap, 
for the bright words that nevermore will come to her 
from her only boy, in the country beyond the sea ! 

FRANK WOOD. 




xlvi RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 



O'ERIEN'S PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. 

[From the Neio York Citizen, September 30, 1865.] 



JOURNALIST AND POET. 

Among the men of talent and esprit whom it was my 
good fortune to meet at the long table in Pfaff's dingy- 
cellar — hardly less known now than that of Auerbach — 
were two who, to my judgment, represented their classes 
perfectly ; the one being a typical Journalist, of the ele- 
gant and successful kind ; the other being an equally 
typical Poet. 

I speak of E. G. P. Wilkins and Fitz-James O'Brien. 

The former, in the winter of 1860-61, when he came to 
PfafF's for his cafe noir, — before going his usual rounds 
of the theatres, or later in the evening, — was a tall, thin 
young man, with stooping shoulders, and a strikingly 
handsome face. His complexion was light ; his eyes 
were intensely blue and expressive, sometimes earnestly 
thoughtful, sometimes gentle and abstracted, sometimes 
twinkling with plenitude of merriment. His features 
were sharply cut, and thorough-bred in mould ; his skin, 
clear and delicate ; his hair, which he parted nearly in 
the middle of a high forehead, was lustrous and wavy; 
and his mouth was partly concealed by a well-grown and 
becoming mustache, golden brown in color, and remarka- 
bly fine in texture. His hands were long, thin, and deli- 
cate as a girl's. His dress was always unexceptionable, 
no matter what the occasion or the season, though his 



PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. xlvii 

preference was generally for loose, rough, easy styles, 
which became him wonderfully. 

All his appointments and surroundings were tasteful and 
plentiful. He was not a man to go without the things he 
w^anted. If he asked you to his rooms, his decanters 
never turned up unexpectedly empty. If he was suddenly 
called upon to go out in the evening, he was never without 
suitable trappings for the occasion. In a word, he was 
never at fault for the minor elegances and hospitalities of 
life, and his forethought and supervision in these mat- 
ters should preserve his memory from the imputation of 
" Bohemianism." 

Fitz-James O'Brien was cast in a different mould. He 
was shorter than Wilkins, and far more muscular, being, 
indeed, a gymnast of some ability, and a firm disciple of 
the church of St. Biceps. His complexion was florid ; 
his eyes dark blue, with a marvellously winning expres- 
sion ; his chin very small, and his mouth entirely covered 
by a heavy, brown, cavalry mustache. His hair, which 
was darker than that of Wilkins, was so fine as to appear 
thin. 

There was more life, more vigor, more animal spirit 
and manliness, in this face, than in the one I have first 
described ; but it was not so high-bred and gentle, nor, 
to my taste, so refinedly handsome. Still, Fitz-James 
O'Brien would have passed anywhere for a fine-looking 
man, as he certainly was. 

In one personal peculiarity he had a great advantage, 
not ^nly over Ned Wilkins, but over almost all other men 
I ever knew. His voice, in speaking, was the richest, the 
sweetest, the most persuasive and expressive, of all the male 
voices I can now recall. It was a power in itself I shall 
never forget the impression he made upon a little party. 



xlviii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

one evening, by the manner in which he read several of 
Emerson's poems. He threw so much warmth, so much 
human tenderness and sympathy into them, that we were 
all astonished. Then, artfully turning the leaves, as if still 
reading from the book, he recited his own " Bacchus " : — 

" Pink as the rose was his skin so fair, 

Round as the rosebud his perfect shape, 
And there lay a light in his tawny hair, 

Like the sun in the heart of a bursting grape! " 

You can fancy how we marvelled to hear such luscious 
tropes from Emerson, and how we laughed over the de- 
ception when O'Brien informed us of it. 

Wilkins was an indefatigable worker. The sun never 
set without having shone upon something accomplished 
by him. The dramatic and musical articles, and a va- 
riety of short, sprightly, sometimes sharp, and often hu- 
morous editorials in the Herald^ were from his pen. 

Besides these, he wrote a dashing, humorous, highly 
original — and to the managers often exasperating — 
dramatic feuilleton for a weekly paper, and was the New 
York correspondent for several American and foreign 
journals. 

It will be readily imagined that so much occupation left 
him but little leisure. Yet nobody ever saw him in a 
hurry, or with the air of being pressed by business. He 
always had plenty of time to chat, to take a glass of some- 
thing social, to join in any merry-making, to romp with 
his sister's children, — to whom he was greatly attached, 
— and to amuse himself in a hundred ways; but the 
work was invariably done, and done well, without slight 
or slovenliness. 

It was, indeed, one of his harmless and pleasant affec- 



PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. xlix 

tations — and he had many — to let nobody know when 
he worked ; to appear not to work at all, but to accom- 
plish much, notwithstanding. Perhaps a habit of his, 
which was not very widely known, might explain some- 
thing of his apparent leisure. He rose at six in the 
morning, and wrote till breakfast-time, — between nine 
and ten. With the product of this healthy, fresh, early- 
morning labor in his pocket, he could breakfast with ele- 
gant idleness, and saunter down town as if time-killing 
were his only object in life. In the Herald office he 
usually wrote something more, and returned home to 
dine at dusk, with nothing to think of until the theatres 
opened, when he went about from one to the other, wher- 
ever there was anything new going on, making mental 
notes for the amusement paragraphs which he usually 
wrote immediately on going home, and sent to the paper 
by a messenger. 

O'Brien's methods of working were in no wise so sys- 
tematic as this. Poets are erratic by nature, and none 
more so than he was. He often let days and weeks pass 
without putting a line on paper. Then, when the inspira- 
tion came,^he wrote steadily and easily on to the end, 
often without interruption. He was not known, how- 
ever, to rise at six o'clock in the morning. On the con- 
trary, he was inordinately fond of his bed, sleeping ten, 
twelve, and fifteen hours on a stretch. One or two o'clock 
in the afternoon was a common hour for his appearance 
for breakfast, and nearly all his work was done between 
that time and dark. 

Undoubtedly his habits of labor would have been much 
more regular if he had lived an orderly and methodical 
life, with surroundings accumulated by the instinct of 
comfort, — an instinct as much inborn as an ear for music 

d 



1 RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

or an eye for color. But poor Fitz lacked this. He loved 
luxuries but could not acquire them. Left to himself, 
he became instantly reduced to a half-furnished bedroom 
in some dingy hotel, a solitary suit of clothing, and — 
nothing else. He was frequently without a pen, a bot- 
tle of ink, a sheet of paper, or money enough to purchase 
either, — a condition of things not highly favorable to the 
entertainment of the Muses. 

When I first knew him, in '5G, '57, he had elegant rooms, 
with a large and valuable library, piles of manuscripts, 
dressing-cases, decanters, pipes, pictures, a wardrobe of 
much splendor, and all sorts of knickknackery such as 
young bachelors love to collect. These properties were 
subsequently left, a melancholy trail, among the lodging- 
houses in which he lived, — or rather through which he 
passed, — for the partial indemnification of the disap- 
pointed keepers thereof. 

I do not think that Fitz ever incurred a debt in his 
life without feeling perfectly sure of its' immediate pay- 
ment. But, somehow, when he had the money, he had 
also so many other uses for it that the debt was crowded 
over " till next time." Meanwhile he came to be afflicted 
with a certain curious fear of his creditor, that increased 
with every day of credit, until meeting him voluntarily 
was far beyond Fitz's strength of mind ; so the debt went 
forever uncancelled. This was hardly criminal, save in 
the strictest dry-goods poiiat of view ; but it was exceed- 
ingly unfortunate for O'Brien — and for others. 

All these petty considerations, however, sink into noth- 
ingness when we read a poem like the ode to Kane, or a 
romance like " The Diamond Lens." Let it be recorded, 
in passing, that all the stories about O'Brien's stealing" the 
plot of this wonderful tale from one of the late William 



PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. li 

North's manuscripts are utterly and ridiculously false. 
North had not brain enough, and has nowhere indicated 
the possession of half enough, to have conceived such a 
work. It is like saying that Tennyson borrows inspira- 
tion from Tupper.* 

Ned Wilkins left no work which will live beyond the 
memory of his personal friends. His feuilletons, before 
mentioned, were very clever, and upon these rests the best 
part of his strictly literary reputation. The Herald files 
bear abundant testimony to his powers as a journalist. 

His death seemed, when it came, like some great mis- 
take. Everybody exclaimed, " No, not Wilkins ! " when 
they heard of it. It did not seem possible. I passed a 
delightful evening with him, two wrecks before. We went 
to Niblo's, to laugh at Forrest's Metamora, — and found 
plenty to laugh at, — - after which I accompanied him to 
his rooms, where we talked about literature — French 
especially, and Montaigne, one of his prime favorites — 
until the small hours began to grow. A few days later, 
I heard he was ill, but of nothing serious. A week after, 
I was in the house, and went up to his chamber with a 
wild and untamable friend of his, to give him a rouse. 

* O'Brien's story of " The Diamond Lens " was, in fact, prompted 
by a suggestion made to him by Bellew, the artist, or by Dr. A. L. 
Carroll, respecting the wonders concealed in a drop of water. There 
is a superb passage on this subject somewhere in the works of Edward 
Everett. " The Diamond Lens " first appeared in January, 1858, 
in the Atlantic Monthly. William North was not then living, — 
he having committed suicide, at No. 7 Bond Street, New York, on 
November 13th, 1854. North was the author of a story entitled 
" Microcosmos," which may have related to a topic kindred with 
that of " The Diamond Lens," and which was lost by a publisher 
in Philadelphia. The known writings of North, as Arnold sug- 
gests, indicate neither the force nor the quality of imagination 



Hi RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

He was in bed, and sleepy; but laughed as he said, 
"There, good night, — shut the door behind yoii^^ — in 
token of his willingness to be left alone. 

Two days later I saw him in the street with William 
Stuart, the manager, and was pained to see how like an 
old man he walked. This was Tuesday or Wednesday. 
On the Sunday following Will Winter came to my rooms, 
pale, haggard, hollow-eyed, and told me with a gasp that 
Ned Wilkins was dead ! 

He was just on the threshold. His position was just 
assured and ripening. He was just coming into a hand- 
some income from his manifold labors. He had just 
established a happy home, with the family of a deceased 
brother. Everything smiled upon him, and fortune was 
turning her wheel in his behalf, when — poof ! — the 
candle is out! 

Not so with Fitz-James O'Brien. He was, I think, of 
exactly the same age, but he had lived more. He had 
gained experience in London, where he dissipated his 
patrimony and underwent a grand passion. He was a 
sort of poet before Ned dreamed of writing anything. 

O'Brien has left enough poems to make a volume or 
two of rare excellence. 

needful to produce such a work as " The Diamond Lens " ; whereas 
O'Brien's writings abound with the same powers and attributes that 
are shown in this particular- tale. North and O'Brien were once 
friends, but they parted in enmity ; and this foolish imputation of 
plagiai'ism, to which Arnold refers, was subsequently cast upon 
O'Brien by some obscure adherent of North's. It never had the 
least foundation in truth. But O'Brien was too brilliant a mind, 
and wrote too well, to escape the hostihty of envy and the pursuit 
of detraction. — North's principal work, "The Man of the World," 
in which O'Brien is satirized as 0' Bouncer, was originally named 
"The Slave of the Lamp."— Ed. 



PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. liii 

His death was tragic. He was on the staff of General 
Lander, and he went out with forty men to forage one da}-, 
near Bloomery Gap. Meeting a force of Confederates, 
Fitz ordered a charge, as a matter of course; he never 
knew what physical fear was. Unhappily the enemy 
outnumbered him largely, and his charge was of no use. 
A skirmish ensued, and in if Fitz met the Confederate 
officer in command, face to face, in the road. A regular 
duel with revolvers ensued. At the second shot O'Brien's 
shoulder was fractured, the ball entering near the elbow 
and glancing up the humerus bone. This, however, did 
not spoil his eye, and with another shot he knocked his 
opponent out of the saddle. 

The best of treatment, in a private family, at Cumber- 
land, only alleviated his lingering tortures, and he died, 
within seven weeks, in terrible agony, lockjaw having 
threatened him almost from the first. During his illness 
he managed to write two or three fine poems and some 
charming letters. 

I think a larger number of persons mourned for O'Brien 
than for Wilkins; for all his many readers missed him, 
and sorrowed thereat. But there was a deeper grief in 
St. Thomas's Church, on that mournful rainy afternoon, 
among those who gathered about the beautiful presence 
of what was once Ned Wilkins, than often falls to the 
lot of any of us, be we journalists, poets, or simple 
" lookers-on in Vienna." * 

GEOEGE ARNOLD. 

* St, Thomas's Church stood at the northwest corner of Broad- 
way and Houston Street, New York. It was torn down long ago. 
—Ed. 



liv RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 



O'BRIEN'S BOHEMTAK DAYS. 



My dear Winter : — Your letter revives many pleasant 
recollections. As I read it, Fitz-James O'Brien stands 
before me, and I see his stout, athletic figure, his broad, 
ruddy Irish face, his characteristic suit of that check- 
pattern supposed to be monopolized by British tourists 
in French farces. He used to call it his " banking " suit ; 
and, indeed, in those merry Bohemian days, the checks 
he wore were the only ones we knew. 

O'Brien had not only the figure but the training of an 
athlete, and I remember that, before the war turned the 
attention of our young men to athletics, his skill was 
considered wonderful. He was an admirable swordsman, 
and had served in the English army, although he was 
always reticent as to his history. I have seen several 
instances of his skill with the pistol. Once we were 
to dine with a friend in chambers, and sat in a front 
room waiting for dinner. Over the table, in the back 
room, was suspended from the chandelier one of those 
little card-board ornaments, three-sided, with a tiny ball 
of worsted hanging from each of the corners. The con- 
versation turned upon William Tell, and, to illustrate 
the feasibility of Tell's feat with the apple, Fitz-James, 
without rising from his chair, drew a revolver from his 
pocket and shot off the three tiny balls swinging from the 



HIS BOHEMIAN DAYS. Iv 

chandelier ornament, — one, two, three, as quickly as I 
could give the word. 

Just then a waiter entered with a plate of birds for 
dinner. " Ha ! " cried O'Brien, " now we can have some 
real shooting. Let fly a bird, waiter ! " — '' But, sir," stam- 
mered the waiter, " the birds are fried ! " — " Fried ! " 
shouted O'Brien, with a voice that rang through the 
house, "then let me shoot the cook! A cook who 
would fry birds deserves death ! The cook ! Tell him 
to come up and be killed instantly ! " 

The idea of suicide was often in O'Brien's mind. I 
recall a night at Pfaff' s when the matter was seriously 
discussed. Just at that period death was very dear to 
all of us. You had written your dark poem of " Orgia." 
George Arnold was meditating gloomy verses. Poor 
Shepherd, hanging crape upon his usual genial mood, 
was confiding to Pfaff his fondness for the tomb. Harry 
Clapp,* always cynical, declared that his feeling in regard 

* N. G. Shepherd and Henry Clapp, Jr. were casual and not 
intimate associates of O'Brien. The former was a most amiable 
man, and a charming writer, whether in verse or prose. The latter 
was one of the most sparkling cynical wits that have ever worked 
on the American press. Clapp was born, Nov. 11th, 1814, at Nan- 
tucket, Mass., and in early life he distinguished himself both as a 
writer and an orator for the temperance cause and for the abolition of 
slavery. On October 23d, 1858, he started the New York Saturday 
Press, withT. B. Aldrich as assistant editor, and O'Brien as dramatic 
reviewer. Aldrich and O'Brien retired from the paper in January, 
1859, and in December, 1860, it was discontinned. Several years 
later Clapp revived it, — stating that it had been suspended for 
want of means, and was now started again for the same reason. The 
favorite signature of this caustic satirist was " Figaro." He led a 
restless, unhappy, and, toward the last, a very wretched and pitia- 
ble life, and he died in extreme penury — aged sixty-one — on the 
2d of April, 1875. His name, at the time, was bandied about in 



Ivi RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

to death was one of "consuming, intolerable curiosity." 
''That," said O'Brien, " is my feeling exactly, and I intend 
to satisfy my curiosity without waiting for the slow decay 
of nature. Doubtless the ' consuming ' may come after- 
wards ; but of that we must take the chances. With 
such a fascinating problem as that of death before us, 
I cannot imagine how anybody can be satisfied to go on 
with the monotonous stupidity of living." 

O'Brien's talk was often crisply epigrammatic. He 
was not a punster : the wit of his remarks was in the 
idea and the nice arrangement of words ; the humor was 
subtle and as bright as sunshine ; not the broad Irish 
wit and humor of smart sayings and sudden repartee, but 
quaint, peculiar, pervading' the thought as well as the 
expression of the thought. After he had been shot, in 
the war, and when he was on his death-bed, he wrote a 
letter, which I have unfortunately lost, relative to the 
spring fashion openings, of which the papers were then 

a thoroughly inhuman and disgraceful manner by many journal- 
ists in this country, who, while he lived, were never his equals 
either in ability or any virtue. His grave is beside that of his 
mother, at Nantucket. His epitaph was written, as follows, by the' 
editor of this volume : — 

H. C. 

"Wit stops to grieve and laughter stops to sigh 

That so much wit and laughter e'er could die ; 

But pity, conscious of its anguish past, 

Is glad this tortured spirit rests at last. 

His purpose, thought, and goodness ran to waste ; 

He made a happiness he could not taste ; 

Mirth could not help him, talent could not save ; 

Through cloud and storm he drifted to the grave. 

Ah, give his memory — who made the cheer, 

And gave so many smiles — a single tear! — Ed. 



HIS BOHEMIAN DAYS. Ivii 

full, and he described the trees, flowers, and hospital 
life in the terms employed by the fashion-writers, — using 
them so aptly and so daintily that they seemed abso- 
lutely poetical, and the reader wondered why nature 
should not have been always depicted in the patois of the 
modiste and the colors of the fashion-plate. Yet this let- 
ter, as carefully written as if it were intended for pub- 
lication, was thrown off in a painful hour, to amuse and 
reassure an anxious friend. But O'Brien could write 
nothing carelessly. His diamonds were all polished and 
faceted. He never seemed to find them in the rough, 
although he drew them from an apparently inexhaustible 
mine. 

He spoke guardedly to me of an attachment in the old 
country, that had marred his life. " Passion I can feel," 
he said ; " but never again shall I know what it is to 
love. A man who once really loves can love but once. 
I have loved one woman ; for all other women my heart 
is dead ; but my passions, which have no heart in them, 
are as strong as lions, and they tear me like lions." It 
was the old story, — trite enough to be almost ludicrous. 

O'Brien, like most of his comrades of that brilliant 
coterie we knew and loved, died too soon for his fame. 
His writings were exquisite, but they are forgotten except 
by the select few who collect and prize such literary gems. 
The war interposes between his fame and the present 
generation, like a new deluge. The clear, sweet, strong 
voice of his poetry was drowned by the clash of resound- 
ing arms. Even as a soldier of the Union he fell too 
soon; for his memory is obscured by the holocausts of 
later but not more noble sacrifices. To recall him and 
his works is like discovering a genius who lived before the 
flood, and was overwhelmed by the waves upon which 



Iviii EECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

the dumb beasts that voyaged with Noah rode safely 
to Mount Ararat and celebrity. How many other great 
and glowing souls were quenched, like O'Brien's, by the 
war that drowned out the old era and gave us a new 
America ! To you, — preserved like the dove in the ark 
of life, — I rejoice that the task has come of revivifying 
one of the genial and gracious names that were lost be- 
neath the waters of the Lethe of 1861. 
Yours faithfully, 

STEPHEN FISKE. 
New York, October 8th, 1880. 



^ 



AS JOURNALIST AND SOLDIER. lix 



O'BEIEN AS JOUENALIST AND SOLDIER 



My dear Winter : — It is questionable whether I can 
contribute anything in relation to Fitz-James O'Brien 
beyond that which is already known to you. After the 
lapse of eighteen years, my reminiscences of him are, 
I fear, too general to be of interest. 

Coming to Vanity Fair, some five months after the 
date of its first publication, my early impressions of him, 
derived mainly from others, were — to speak frankly — 
not of a kind to attract me toward him ; yet, as I look 
back upon my acquaintance with him, the retrospect 
recalls no act of his during the continuance of our 
friendly relations — which ended only with his death 
— that should lead me to speak unkindly of him now. 
Without reference to the loss that literature sustained in 
his death, I felt a keen sorrow at his sudden '' taking-off," 
for there was a strain of manliness underlying his erratic 
habits of life that always had a charm for me, and a 
claim upon my warmest sympathies. There is, perhaps, 
something that may well be left unsaid ; but, as that is 
true, in a greater or less degree, of all of us, the reflection 
may go for what it is worth, with those who care to 
dwell upon it, and whose freedom from human frailty 
gives them a charter to censure other men. 

The personality of O'Brien presents itself clearly before 
me now, and I can almost see him as he was then, when 



Ix RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

his strong, well-knit frame and exuberant and rejoicing 
vigor bade fair to outlast the lives of all his associates. 

It was a custom, in the early days of Vanity Faivy in 
the old editorial rooms at No. 113 Nassau Street, New 
York, for the writers and artists who were then associated 
with it to assemble every Friday afternoon, and, over a 
glass of wine and a cigar, submit and discuss suggestions 
for subjects for the next issue. On these occasions 
O'Brien's arrival was always the signal for an outburst of 
welcome, and our interest immediately centred in the new- 
comer. His personal magnetism and bright intelligence 
brought him at once to the front; for, in the friendly 
encounter of wit and humor, O'Brien — always self-reli- 
ant, brilliant, well-tempered, apt at repartee, and piquant 
with a jovial aggressiveness — imparted new vitality to 
the little circle, and made lively work for all about him. 
Amid the laughter, buzz and hum of voices, and the quick 
interchange of quip and jest, — to which he invariably 
contributed his full share, — he would take his place at 
the table, and turn off paragraphs, writing off-hand and 
rapidly, (how well it is needless for me to say,) upon 
almost any subject that presented itself. 

Excellent traits in his character were his freedom from 
envy and his prompt recognition of ability in others, 
which no personal differences could induce him to dis- 
pute ; and when his judgment was asked among his lit- 
erary friends, which was not infrequently the case, his 
advice was kindly and conscientiously given. Careless, 
as he certainly was, of the opinions of others regarding 
his actions, he was keenly sensitive to the spirit of un- 
fairness which prompted attacks upon him in certain 
journals, as to matters so entirely personal as to possess 
no interest for the public. Never shrinking from any 



AS JOURNALIST AND SOLDIER. Ixi 

responsibility for his acts, and despising an ambushed 
attack, he was a fearless, open enemy, physically and in- 
tellectually equipped for defence, and always in his " boots 
and spurs.'* His sympathies were naturally with the 
weaker side, and frequent and bitter were the satirical 
shafts he let fly at the heads of men occupying posi- 
tions which, in his opinion, belonged of right to women. 
Looking to more ambitious work, he had selected the 
story of Samson as a subject for a drama, and, I think, 
had partly written it. 

At the breaking out of the war, O'Brien, an uncom- 
promising Union man, never failed to support with his 
pen the cause which he afterward aided with his sword. 
A love of adventure would have impelled such a man to 
the army ; but every man who knew him knew that in 
joining the Union forces in the field he was prompted by 
love for his adopted country. After his experience at 
Camp Cameron with the New York Seventh Regiment, 
in which he served as a private soldier, he felt that the 
opportunity had come for him to redeem the time he had 
so carelessly used. He went to the front, determined to 
make a good record in his new profession. Cool, clear- 
headed, and full of fight, he had the elements for brilliant 
soldiership. 

At this time he was much in my society, and I remem- 
ber with what a sad earnestness he occasionally referred 
to the past, and how well and hopefully he dwelt upon 
the possibilities of the future. I have an abiding faith 
that he spoke then from the deepest promptings of his 
heart. He died young, — when his vigorous constitution 
gave hope of years of life before him, in which his better 
nature and unquestionable genius could have given to 
the world the best that was in him. 



\ 



Ixii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 

A few days before his death he wrote a singularly in- 
teresting letter to his friend Frank Wood, under circum- 
stances in which a man has but little courage for corre- 
spondence. Written when he was dying, after a severe 
surgical operation performed when he was exhausted by 
long suffering from his wound, this letter impresses the 
reader with the marvellous self-control of a man — "a 
philosopher serene and cold," to quote his own words — 
who could look death in the face, and composedly con- 
template and analyze his own feelings and condition. 

Surely his memory and his works have a claim upon 
the American people. He gave to our country all he 
could, — his life : let him w^ho can give more ! While 
it may be regretted that the early promise of a man so 
capable was not entirely realized, the works that he has 
left are an earnest of the beautiful spirit that stirred 
within him : — 

*' And, for his passage, 

The soldier's music and the rites of war 

Speak loudly for him." 

LOUIS H. STEPHENS. 
Philadelphia, August 3d, 1880. 



•I" 

POEMS. 



"Making the hard way sweet and delectable." 

Shakespeare. 



^ 



POEMS. 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 

The hunt was o'er. The last thin bugle-note 

Had stole away among the friendly trees, 

Declining gently on its weary way, 

And dying in their arms. The exhausted hounds 

Besmeared with wild-boar's blood lay down, and licked 

Their sanguine coats ; or, growling, strove to scare 

With lazy paw the floating globes of flies 

That buzzed around them lured with scent of gore. 

The horses, bridle-tethered to the trees, 

With flanks thin drawn, where lay the hardened sweat 

In glistening furrows, champed the cruel bit, 

Or nibbled at the leaves. Beneath the shade 

Of a great chestnut that obscured the sun 

The hunters, gathered in a little group, 

Talked of the chase ; and pleasant stories ran 

Of perils, magnified with sportsman's boasts, 

And huge leaps taken in the heat of chase. 

Then hearty laughs at some green youth's mishap 

Went round the circle like a jocund ring 

Of sparkling merriment. The men were gay 

In joyance of rude strength. Their eyes were bold ; 

Their white teeth glistened through their nut-brown beard; 

Like foam-beads in dark ale. Their skins were tanned 



4 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. • 

By honest wind and sun, and every limb 
Was large and fit for use. These men were rough 
As prickly-pear or pomegranate, but they 
Were ripe, and honest-fruited at the core. 
Then in each pause a silver bowl went round, 
Filled with red wine, and every hunter drank, 

* Health to St. Hubert, our good patron saint ! * 
And passed the wine bowl on, until it came 
To where Sir Brasil sat. And he outspoke, 

* You know, my friends, I live not to drink wine, 
Since that sad day when in the Holy Land 

The Emir made me quaff my brother's blood 

Disguised as wine. I cannot join your revel. 

Pardon me, comrades, I will seek some stream. 

Hid in the twilight of this leafy glade. 

And drink your healths in a more homely draught.' 

Then rose he 'mid good-natured jeers and smiles 

At such faint-heartedness in belted knight. 

And, yielding in return mock courtesies, 

He leashed his favorite falcon to his wrist. 

And, girding on his sword, straight took his way, 

Along the silent glades. 

There was no vvater 
In all the summer woods. The insatiate sun 
Had drunk all up, and robbed each secret spring, 
Save the round beads of dew that nestling dwelt 
Beep in the bottom of the foxglove's bells. 
There was no water. Beds of vanished streams 
Mocked him w^ith memories of lucid waves. 
That rose and fell before his fancy's eye 
In glassy splendor. As the soothing wind 
Stole softly o'er the leaves, it gave low tones, 
That sounded in Sir Brasil's sharpened ear 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 

Like distant ripplings of a pleasant stream ; 

But there was none. The umbered soil was dry, 

And the hare rustled through parched, crisping grass. 

Sir Brasil sighed : his brow was hot, — his tongue 

Beat dry against his teeth. His upmost thought 

Was water, — water, clear, and bright, and cool ! 

A storm-cock flew across the glade ; his beak 

Was red with berries of the mountain ash, 

That had lain hidden from the by-gone frost 

Deep in some cranny of the gaping earth. 

Then quoth Sir Brasil, ' I will follow him, 

For I have heard that birds do fly to springs, 

As sands of steel to magnets.' So he struck 

A bee's line through the woods, and followed him. 

Thick grew the brambles, for there was no path 

For dainty feet ; but gnarled roots of oak 

Pushed earth aside and twined in curving cords 

Like snakes at play. Pale wild-flowers grew in crowds, 

Like captive fays, o'er whom the giant trees 

Kept watch and ward. Through the green canopy 

That stretched o'erhead, stray, vagrant sunbeams stole, 

Turning with fairy power the withered leaves 

To evanescent gold. Lizards, with skins 

Like lapis-lazuli, peeped with glittering eyes 

Between the crevices of mouldering trees. 

The hum of bees 'round many a trunk foretold 

The heavy honeycomb that lay within, 

Concealed with cunning passages and doors 

Of deftly-woven moss. The bright jay chattered, 

And the bold robin gazed with mute surprise 

On the strange shape whose daring seemed to make 

The woods his own, while on Sir Brasil went, 

Stumbling o'er roots, embraced by brambly arms, 



6 Sm BRASIL'S FALCON. 

And leaving fragments of his rich attire 

Fluttering on thorny boughs, that many a day 

Held in great awe the timid woodland birds. 

The sun grew low. It was three hours beyond 

The middle day, when, lo ! Sir Brasil stepped 

With hooded falcon leashed upon his wrist, 

Cloak torn in shreds, and plume that hung awry, 

Beyond the limit of the lonely wood, 

And found himself upon the rugged brink 

Of a dried water-course. It was a dank 

And dismal place. The broad, misshapen trees 

Were bare anatomies, w^ith scarce a leaf 

To clothe their withered bones. Huge, fleshy weeds 

Grew in black groups along the ragged edge 

Of a tall, beetling cliff, whose steep face sloped 

With slabs of rock, adown w^hose pallid sides 

The thin, white moss spread like a leprosy. 

Along the base of this pale cliff there ran 

The channel of some fitful winter stream 

Long fled. The smooth, round pebbles paved 

The empty bed, and all the secret rocks 

Lay bare and dry. Some there were quaintly holed, 

And eaten through by the soft, toothless weaves, 

And some were strangely carved, and smoothly hewn, 

With watery chisels, into phantasm forms. 

There was no stream. No. limpid water went 

With trickling step along the stony course. 

The ousel had forsook the place, and sought 

Another stream to dipple with its wings. 

The heron stood no longer by the brink. 

The azure of the halcyon flashed no more 

From bank to bank. The tall brown-tufted reeds. 

That sung so softly to the evening wind, 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 

Had withered all, and lay in matted heaps 

Upon the arid earth. Sir Brasil sighed, 

" There is no water here, I am athirst. 

0, I would give a broad piece for one drop 

To cool my parching throat ! " As said he this, 

The sunlight flashed upon some glittering point 

That shone like diamond. Hastening forward, he 

Beheld from out the crevice of a rock 

A sluggish flow, that trickled drop by drop, 

Of dark, green water. So reluctantly 

It oozed through the fissure, that it seemed 

Like the last lifeblood of a river-god 

Ebbing in lingering drops from out his heart ! 

" My faith ! " Sir Brasil said, " though not as clear 

As wave of Castaly or Hippocrene, 

Thou art right welcome, — for my throat is dry. 

And I am faint with thirst ; and thou, poor bird, 

Shalt share my luck, and quaff this scanty spring." 

So saying to the falcon on his wrist. 

He loosed its leashes and unlaced its hood, 

And let its bold eye gaze abroad again 

Upon the sunny world. The joyous bird 

Gave one far skyward glance ; another swept 

The wide horizon round, then preening all 

His plumes, and ruffling them toward the sun, 

He pecked the knight with a love-softened beak, 

And nestled to his arm. 

Then Brasil straight 
Unloosed a silken belt from which there swung 
A golden bugle. Taking it, he stopped 
The jewelled mouthpiece with a plug of moss ; 
Then, stooping, held the inverted bell beneath 
The slowly falling stream. With toil and pain 



8 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 

He gathered each slow drop, and watched them rise 

By hair's-breadth after hair's-breadth, till he saw 

The dear draught level with the golden rim ; 

Then joyously he raised it to his lips, 

And cried, " Here 's to thee, goddess of the stream ! 

Locked in the heart of this cold rock. Alone, 

Forsaken by the fickle waves that made 

The current of thy life, thou art most desolate, 

And weep'st all day those trickling drops, which are 

Thy tears. In them I pledge me to thy grief ! " 

But as he raised the golden bugle up 

Toward his lips, the falcon with swift stroke 

Of his long pinion dashed it from his Hand, 

And all the precious draught ran waste on earth. 

Sir Brasil frowned. " How now, bold bird ] " he cried, 

" Thou dost not know how toilsomely I filled 

That scanty measure, or thou never wouldst 

Have wasted it. Next time take better heed. 

Or thou wilt rue it." Once again Sir Brasil 

With weary hand and long delay filled up 

The golden measure, and as he did raise 

It to his lips, the falcon with one stroke 

Of his swift pinion dashed it to the earth. 

Sir Brasil swore, " Now by the sacred cup 

Which Christ did drink of, I will wring thy neck, 

Thou foolish bird, an thou do that again ! " 

A third time did he stoop, and, horn in hand, 

Bend his broad back to catch the sluggish stream ; 

A third time did he raise the bugle up 

Toward his lips ; a third time with swift wing 

The falcon dashed the measure from his hand. 

Then flashed Sir Brasil's eye with humid fire, 

Quivered his thin-drawn lip, and paled his cheek, 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 9 

And with an ungloved hand he smote the bird 
Full in the throat. It fluttered on his wrist, 
And drew its jesses taut ; with panting strength 
Spread out its arrowy wings convulsively, 
As if 't would flee right sunward from black death. 
Then drew them close. The silver Milan bells,* 
That quivered on its legs, rattled a chime 
Of mortal melody that smote the sky. 
Its old domain. Its curved beak opened wide, 
Agape for air. Its large, round, golden eye 
Turned one long look of sad, reproachful love 
Full on Sir Brasil ; then, with a faint gasp, 
That stifling burst'from its choked, swollen throat. 
It fluttering fell. The silken jesses slipped ; 
Its proud head bent in death's last agony ; 
And, tumbling from his wrist, it gasped and died ! 
The stern knight bit his lip as he looked down ; 
He loved the bird, but had a hasty hand. 
And hastier temper. " Well-a-day ! " he said, 
" The bird was mulish and deserved its fate. 
Yet would I had not killed it ! " Then he took 
With mournful hand his bugle, and a sigh 
Fluttered between his lips, like some sad bird 
From prison flying blindly. " Well ! " he said, 
" 'T is weary work filling these sluggish draughts ; 
Each takes an hour at least. I '11 to the source 
Of this thin stream, and ravish it with lips 
As eager as e'er pressed the Sabine maid. 
When Koman youth grew hot. I '11 dip my horn, 

* Milan bells. The tinkling bells that were fastened to the fal- 
con's legs came from this city. It was necessary that their tone 
should be sonorous and shrill, and they were graduated in a rising 
scale of semitones. 



10 Sm BRASIL'S FALCON. 

And raise it diamond-dripping from the wave, 

And as I drink, the abundant stream shall well 

Over the brim, and trickle down my beard, 

Like morning dew. I '11 quaff with thirsty joy. 

And when 1 've drank I '11 fling the lucid lees 

On the dry leaves, and arid flowers, that they 

May share the moist delight ! " And with these words 

He sought the secret windings of the stream, 

And followed them. 

Starkly the falcon lay; 
The dry leaves rattled with a stealthy sound ; 
The beetle hummed, the insects in the grass 
Made silver whisperings ; the mouse crept out 
From underneath the sod, and, timid, gazed 
On the proud foe that lay so stiff" and strange. 
Half fearing stratagem, it dared not move. 
But pricked its ears, and oped its glittering eyes 
Enchained with wonder, till a lizard slim 
Darted from out the grass, and boldly brushed 
The falcon's lifeless wing. Then did the mouse 
Believe its foe was dead. Then did it play 
Around the corpse, and gaze into its eyes. 
Those large, round golden eyes, that from the clouds 
Could pierce the crouching vermin of the earth 
With overhanging death ! 

The dry leaves fell ; 
The water dropped ; the insects in the grass 
Hummed their sharp songs that sounded in the ear 
Like tiny silver tinklings. In the midst 
Of all this fair monotony of life 
Lay the dead falcon ! 

With much weary toil 
Sir Brasil traced the windings of the stream, 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 11 

Through rock defiles, as wild as sculptured dreams 

Where naked horrors frowned. Through oozy swamps 

Coated with marish oil in which the sun 

Made slimy rainbows ; through forsaken beds 

Of ancient streams ; o'er massive boulder stones, 

Humped with old age, and coated with gray moss ; 

O'er trunks of rotting trees that in the night 

Lit with pale splendor the dark paths around, 

And slept in light ; o'er sharp volcanic soil 

That crackled 'neath the tread ; o'er naked plains, 

Where the sad wind could find not even a stone 

To whet its breath on, but went babbling round 

With dull, blunt edge, — Sir Brasil took his way 

With weary foot, and tongue that often wagged 

In sanctimonious oath. A full, slow hour 

Had passed, and e'en the knight, though faint with thirst, 

Was nigh to turn upon his steps and wend 

Back through the woods, when, lo ! like sapphires seeii 

Through the smoke-curling clouds of maiden's hair, 

Gleamed something blue. It twisted as it shone, 

And glanced in distance like an azure spray. 

As speeds the Arab after five days' thirst 

To the green oasis, — that desert's teat 

At which its children suck, — so Brasil sped, 

And nerved his flagging limbs to reach the spot 

So distant and so dear. 

" At last ! " he cried, 
" At last, at last, the water glads my sight ! 
0, I will lave, and drink, and lave again, 
Until my very bones the moistfUre feel. 
And half my blood is water ! " And he ran 
Like a young deer ; but as he nearer came, 
A poisonous vapor seemed to load the air. 



12 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 

And foul mephitic clouds that clogged each sense 

Hovered oppressively with leaden wings. 

Sir Brasil staggered on. The poisoned air 

Smote on his brain like an invisible sword^ 

And clove his consciousness. He raved, and reeled, 

And threw his arms aloft, and tried to pray, 

And spoke pet words to his dead falcon, as 

It were alive ; then suddenly he seemed 

With one great effort to regain himself, 

And onward strode. 

But as he neared the place 
"Whence shot the sapphire gleam, a horrid sight 
Burst on his view. Lo ! coiling on a mound 
A huge, green serpent lay. Tier upon tier 
Of emerald scales that glistered into blue 
Swept upwards in grand spirals. His great head 
Lay open-jawed, and hanging o'er the brink 
Of a steep rock, while slavering from his mouth 
A stream of distilled poison, green and rank, 
Trickled in sluggish drops, that at the base 
Gathered themselves into an oily stream, 
And flowed away. 

Sir Brasil's heart grew sick ; 
For now he saw what he would fain have drunk, 
And what the falcon wasted, was the venom 
That slavered from the serpent on the rock. 
And, filtering through some 'secret stony way, 
Welled out below in green and sluggish drops 
Of withering poison. Now like a fierce wind 
Remorse howled through his soul, and hunted thought 
Fled from its scorching breath. His nature swung 
Naked and desolate as a gibbet corpse 
From which the flesh drops piecemeal. He did feel 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 13 

That death should fly him, as a ghost of guilt 

More horrid than himself. He felt that God 

Held not within his arsenal of curses 

One great enough for him ; that earth's green skin 

Crept, as he trode, as shudders human flesh 

When loathsome beings touch it. He grew white 

As the swamp-lily, and upon his cheek 

Stood beads of dew, round and distinct as those 

That morning winds brush from the shivering trees. 

His strong frame shook ; short sobbings dry and fierce 

Rang in his throat, and on his swelling chest 

The silken doublet rose and fell amain, 

Like bellying sail that labors with the wind. 

He tore his long, fair curls, and cast them down 

And stamped upon them, whilst he cursed himself 

For his deep cruelty. to so fair a bird. 

Then he took counsel with himself, and thought 

If it were good to turn his dagger in 

And sheathe it in his heart ; but, lo ! within 

His soul a spirit rose — like those that flit 

From out deep fountains in the even-time 

To warn us of dark ills — and spread a mist 

Betwixt him and the thought of foul self-murder. 

Straightway he turned, and said unto himself, 

" The guilty, by the avenging will of God, 

Are dragged by secret force toward the spot 

Where lie their victims. I will hasten back 

To where my dead bird lies by the steep bank. 

And mark each footstep with a moan, as monks 

Mark rosaries with prayers." — So saying went, 

With ashen cheek, slow step, and muttering lips. 

Straight to the spot where the dead falcon lay. 

A little while he stood regarding it 



14 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 

AVith a drear wistful look ; then, stooping down, 
He smoothed its ruffled plumage with his hand, 
Closed its round, staring eyes, and gently folded 
Its stiffened wings along its breast ; then broke 
Into a lamentation wild. 

" bird, 
My soul is darkened in thy death ! strong grief 
Winds like a snake about my heart, and crushes it 
In its chill clasp. I never yet did feel 
Such bitter wrath against mine own right hand 
As I do now. To think that this fond hand. 
On which so oft thou lovingly hast sat. 
Should turn against thee, and with one foul blow 
Dash all thy life away ! 0, 't was a deed 
Becoming some vile lackey, whose coarse wrath 
Is blinded by thick blood ; but not a knight. 
Whose blood was filtered through three thousand years, 
And to cross swords with whom might surely make 
The foe a gentleman ! I mind me well 
The day we came together. Thou wert young, 
Scarce fledged, and with thy talons yet ungrown ; 
But there w^as courage in thee, and one day, 
When thou didst see a heron in the sky. 
Thou beat'st thy breast against the window-pane, 
And all the falcon sparkled in thine eyes ! 
Then 't was my pride to deck thee splendidly. 
Thy silver bells, wrought in old Milan's town, 
Were shrill as whistle, and the ascending tones 
Were modulated cunningly. Thy hood 
Of purple cramoise, worked with threads of gold, 
Came from that maiden's hand whom I do prize 
Beyond all other women. Then thy food 
Was dainty in its kind, as thou hadst been 



SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 15 

The merlin of an emperor. I did love thee ; 
All proves that I did love thee ; and I would 
Have chopped this right hand from its arm before 
It should have hurt thee wittingly ; but I 
Am hot, and when thy persevering wing 
Stretched between me and death, it angered me, 
And I — I — 0, I cannot think of it, 
Except I curse m^^self, and wish myself 
Accursed by God and man ! 

0, never more 
Will thy silk jesses twine around my wrist ! 
No more will we two wander in the dawn. 
When the wild-flowers are necklaced all with dew, 
And the wet grass pulses with morning life. 
To watch a sedge of herons by the stream. 
Or listen for the bittern's lonely boom 
Rising from out the reeds ! No more, no more, 
When the game springs from out the sedgy pool 
And soars aloft, shall I tear off thy hood. 
Unloose thy jesses, and then launch thee forth 
Upon the deadly race. I ne'er shall see 
Thee rise in airy spirals to the clouds. 
While the wide heron labors far below, 
Till when almost a speck, with sudden swoop, 
Like a live thunderbolt, thou dashest down 
Full on the foe, and, striking at his heart, 
Fall'st fastened to thy victim ! 

How tell 
The maiden fair who worked thy purple hood 
And loved to stroke thy feathers i' the sun, — 
How shall I tell my crime i Why, she would loathe me, 
And wave me from her sight with crushing look, 
And shut me from her heart. I should be held 



16 KANE. 

By all good knights, and ladies fair, a dastard 

Who raised his hand against a loving bird, 

And killed it for its love. I cannot home ! 

The first quest I should hear would be, * Where is 

Thy falcon, Brasil 1 ' and could I reply, 

* Three times it saved my life, fair dame. 

Therefore I slew it.' 0, no home for me ! 

Here in this lonely glade I '11 lay me down 

Close to my murdered bird — and then — and then 

Let what will come." 

The shades of evening fell, 
The invisible dews dropped spirit-like on earth ; 
The woods were silent, and, when the white moon 
Came riding o'er their tops, she sadly saw 
The knight beside the falcon. 



KANE. 

Died 16th February, 1857. 
I. 
Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag, 

Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the pole, 
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 

Flutters alone : 
And underneath, upon the lifeless front 

Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ! 
Fit type of him, who, famishing and gaunt, 
But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows, 
Clung to the drifting floes, 



KANE. 17 

By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 

II. 

Not many months ago we greeted him, 

Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
Hot southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West 

From out its giant breast 
Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main, 
Jubilant to the sky, 
Thundered the mighty cry. 
Honor to Kane ! 

III. 
In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung 

The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 

The golden wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 

With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 

Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
Bright as auroral fires in southern skies. 

Faded and faded ; and the brave young heart 
That the relentless arctic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost Captain, now within his breast 

More and more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
2 



18 KANE. 

Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 
Death launched a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of applause were done 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late, too late, the splendid prize he won 
In the Olympic race of science and of art ! 

IV. 

Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 
Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone, 
And in the burning day 
Wastes peak by peak away, 
Till on some rosy even 
It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he 
Tranquilly floated to a southern sea, 
And melted into heaven ! 

V. 

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ! 
We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 

The story of his strife. 

Such homage suits him well ; 
Better than funeral pomp, or passing-bell ! 

VI. 

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice. 

With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! 

Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous floe 
Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
Crunches his prey ; the insufficient share 

Of loathsome food : 
The lethargy of famine ; the despair 

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued ; 



KANE. 19 

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
Glimmered the fading embers of a mind ! 
That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 
Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 

Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew, — 

The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 

At first, but deepening ever till they grew 
Into black thoughts of murder, — such the throng 
Of horrors round the Hero. High the song 
Should be that hymns the noble part he played ! 
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 

To all around him ; by a mighty will 

Living defiant of the wants that kill. 
Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; 

Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
Those polar winters, dark and desolate. 
Equal to every trial, every fate, 

He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, 
Unlocks the icy gate, 
And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, 
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, 
Bearing their dying chief ! 

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state : 

The knell of old formalities is tolled, 

And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 

No grander episode doth chivalry hold 
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, 

Faithfully kept, through hunger and through cold. 
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane ! 



20 THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 



THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 

' Ho, there ! Fisherman, hold your hand ! 

Tell me what is that far away, — 
There, where over the isle of sand 

Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray 1 
See ! it rocks with a ghastly life, 

Rising and rolling through clouds of spray, 
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife, — 

Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray 1 ' 

' That, good sir, was a steamer stout 

As ever paddled around Cape Race ; 
And many 's the wild and stormy bout 

She had with the winds, in that selfsame place ; 
But her time was come ; and at ten o'clock 

Last night she struck on that lonesome shore ; 
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, 

And at dawn this morning she was no more.' 

' Come, as you seem to know, good man, 

The terrible fate of this gallant ship. 
Tell me about her all that you can ; 

And here 's my flask to moisten your lip. 
Tell me how many she had aboard, — 

Wives, and husbands, and lovers true, — 
How did it fare with her human hoard 1 

Lost she many, or lost she few 1 ' 

* Master, I may not drink of your flask, 
Already too moist I feel my lip ; 



THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 21 

But I 'm ready to do what else you ask, 
And spin you my yarn about the ship : 

'T was ten o'clock, as I said, last night, 

When she struck the breakers and went ashore ; 

And scarce had broken the morning's light 

Than she sank in twelve feet of water or more. 

' But long ere this they knew her doom, 

And the captain called all hands to prayer ; 
And solemnly over the ocean's boom 

Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. 
And round about the vessel there rose 

Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, 
Like angels in their ascension clothes, 

Waiting for those who prayed below. 

' So these three hundred people clung 

As well as they could to spar and rope ; 
With a word of prayer upon every tongue, 

Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. 
But there was no blubbering weak and wild, — 

Of tearful faces I saw but one, 
A rough old salt, who cried like a child, 

And not for himself, but the captain's son. 

* The captain stood on the quarter-deck, 

Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand ; 
Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, 

Sometimes he sadly looked to land. 
And often he smiled to cheer the crew — 

But, Lord ! the smile was terrible grim — 
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew ; 

And that was the last they saw of him. 



22 THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 

* I saw one young fellow with his bride, 

Standing amidships upon the wreck ; 
His face was white as the boiling tide, 

And she was clinging about his neck. 
And I saw them try to say good-by, 

But neither could hear the other speak ; 
So they floated away through the sea to die — 

Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek. 

* And there was a child, but eight at best, 

"Who went his way in a sea she shipped ; 
All the while holding upon his breast 

A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped. 
And as the boy and the bird went by, 

Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, 
They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry, 

And together the three went down to rest. 

* And so the crew went one by one, 

Some with gladness, and few with fear; 
Cold and hardship such work had done 

That few seemed frightened when death was near. 
Thus every soul on board went down, — 

Sailor and passenger, little and great ; 
The last that sank was a man of my town, 

A capital swimmer, — the second mate.* 

* Now, lonely fisherman, who are you 

That say you saw this terrible wreck 1 
How do I know what you say is true. 

When every mortal was swept from the deck 1 
Wliere were you in that hour of death 1 

How did you learn what you relate 1 ' 
His answer came in an under-breath, — 

* Master, I was the second mate ! ' 



A FALLEN STAR. 23 



A FALLEN STAR. 



I SAUNTERED home across the park, 

And slowly smoked my last cigar ; 
The summer night was still and dark, 
With not a single star : 

And, conjured by I know not what, 

A memory floated through my brain. 
The vision of a friend forgot, 

Or thought of now with pain. 

A brilliant boy that once I knew. 

In far-off, happy days of old, 
With sweet, frank face, and eyes of blue, 
And hair that shone like gold : 

Fresh crowned with college victory. 

The boast and idol of his class, — 
With heart as pure, and warm, and free 
As sunshine on the grass ! 

A figure sinewy, lithe, and strong, 

A laugh infectious in its glee, 
A voice as beautiful as song, 
When heard along the sea. 

On me, the man of sombre thought. 

The radiance of his friendship won, 
As round an autumn tree is wrought 
The enchantment of the sun. 



24 A FALLEN STAR. 

He loved me with a tender truth, 

He clung to me as clings the vine, 
And, like a brimming fount of youth, 
His nature freshened mine. 

Together hand in hand we walked ; 

We threaded pleasant country ways. 
Or, couched beneath the limes, we talked, 
On sultry summer days. 

For me he drew aside the veil 

Before his bashful heart that hung, 
And told a sweet, ingenuous tale 
That trembled on his tongue. 

He read me songs and amorous lays. 

Where through each slender line a fire 
Of love flashed lambently, as plays 
The lightning through the wire. 

A nobler maid he never knew 

Than she he longed to call his wife ; 
A fresher nature never grew 
Along the shores of life. 

Thus rearing diamond arches up 

Whereon his future life to build, 
He quaffed all day the golden cup 
That youthful fancy filled. 

Like fruit upon a southern slope, 

He ripened on all natural food, — 
The winds that thrill the skyey cope, 
The sunlight's golden blood : 



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A FALLEN STAR. 25 

And in his talk I oft disceraed 

A timid music vaguely heard ; 
The fragments of a song scarce learned, 
The essays of a bird, — 

The first faint notes the poet's breast, 

Ere yet his pinions warrant flight, 
Will, on the margin of the nest, 
Utter with strange delight. 

Thus rich with promise was the boy, 

When, swept abroad by circumstance, 
We parted, — he to live, enjoy. 
And I to war with chance. 

II. 

The air was rich with fumes of wine 

When next we met. 'T was at a feast, 
And he, the boy I thought divine. 
Was the unhallowed priest. 

There was the once familiar grace. 

The old, enchanting smile was there ; 
Still shone around his handsome face 
The glory of his hair. 

But the pure beauty that I knew 

Had lowered through some ignoble task ; 
Apollo's head was peering through 
A drunken bacchant's mask. 

The smile, once honest as the day. 
Now waked to words of grossest wit ; 



26 A FALLEN STAR. 

The eyes, so simply frank and gay, 
With lawless fires were lit. 

He was the idol of the board ; 

He led the careless, wanton throng ; 
The soul that once to heaven had soared 
Now grovelled in a song. 

He wildly flung his wit away 

In small retort, in ve]?bal brawls, 
And played with words as jugglers play 
With hollow brazen balls. 

But often when the laugh was loud, 

And highest gleamed the circling bowl, 
I saw what unseen passed the crowd, — 
The shadow on his soul. 

And soon the enigma was unlocked ; 
The harrowing history I heard, — 
The sacred duties that he mocked, 
The forfeiture of word. 

And how he did his love a wrong — 

His wild remorse — his mad career — 
And now — ah ! hearken to that song, 
And hark the answering cheer ! 

III. 

Thus musing- sadly on the law 

That lets such brilliant meteors quench, 
Down the dark path a form I saw 
Uprising from a bench. 



A FALLEN STAR. 27 

Ragged and pale, in strident tones 

It asked for alms, — I knew for what ; 
The tremor shivering through its bones 
Was eloquent of the sot. 

It begged, it prayed, it whined, it cried, 
It followed with a shuffling tramp, — 
It would not, could not be denied, — 
I turned beneath a lamp. 

It clutched the coins I gave, and fled 

With muttered words of horrid glee, 
When, like the white, returning dead, 
A vision rose to me. 

A nameless something in its air, 

A sudden gesture as it moved, — 
'T was he, the gay, the debonnaire ! 
'T was he, the boy I loved ! 

And while along the lonesome park 

The eager drunkard sped afar, 
I looked to heaven, and through the dark 
I saw a falling star J 



28 THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 



THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 

My boy left me just twelve years ago : 

'T was the black year of famine, of sickness and woe, 

When the crops died out, and the people died too. 

And the land into one great grave-yard grew ; 

And our neighbors' faces were as white and thin 

As the face of the moon when she first comes in ; 

And honest men's hearts were rotten with blight, 

And they thieved and prowled like the wolves at night ; 

When the whole land was dark as dark could be, — 

'T was then that Donal, my boy, left me. 

We were turned from our farm where we 'd lived so long, 
For we could n't pay the rent, and the law was strong ; 
From our low meadow lands, and flax fields blue. 
And the handsome green hill where the yellow furze grew. 
And the honest old cow that, each evening, would stand 
At the little gate, lowing to be milked by my hand ; 
And the small patch of garden at the end of the lawn, 
Where Donal grew sweet flowers for his Colleen Bawn ; 
But Donal and I had to leave all these, — 
I to live with father, and he to cross the seas. 

For Donal was as proud as any king's son. 
And swore he 'd not stand by and see such wrongs done. 
But would seek a fortune out in the wide, wide West, 
Where the honest can find labor and the weary rest ; 
And as soon as he was able why then he 'd send for me 
To rest my poor old head in his home across the sea : 
And then his young face flushed like a June sky at dawn. 



THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 29 

As he said that he was thinking how his Colleen Bawn 
Could come along to help me to keep the house straight, 
For he knew how much she loved him, and she 'd prom- 
ised him to wait. 

I think I see him now, as he stood one blessed day, 
With his pale smiling face upon the Limerick quay, 
And I lying on his breast, with his long, curly hair 
Blowing all about my shoulders as if to keep me there ; 
And the quivering of his lip, that he tried to keep so 

proud, — 
Not because of his old mother, but the idle, curious 

crowd, — 
Then the hoisting of the anchor, and the flapping of the 

sail. 
And the stopping of my heart when the wild, Irish wail 
From the mothers, and the children, and the kinsfolk on 

the quay 
Told me plainer than all words that my darling was away. 

Ten years went dragging by, and I heard but now and 

then, — 
For my Donal, though a brave boy, was no scholar with 

the pen ; 
But he sent me kindly words, and bade me not despair. 
And sometimes sent me money, perhaps more than he 

could spare ; 
So I waited and I prayed until it came to pass 
That Father Pat he wanted me one Sunday after mass, 
When I went, a little fearsome, to the back vestry-room, 
Where his reverence sat a-smiling like a sunflower in the 

gloom : 
And then he up and told me — God bless him ! — that 

my boy 
Had sent to bring me over, and I nearly died for joy. 



30 THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 

All day I was half-crazed as I wandered through the 

house ; 
• The dropping of the sycamore seeds, or the scramble of a 

mouse, 
Thrilled through me like a gun-shot; I durst not look 

behind, 
For the pale face of my darling was always in my mind. 
The pale face so sorrowful, the eyes so large and dark, 
And soft shining as the deer's are in young Lord Massy's 

park; 
And the long chestnut hair blown loosely by the wind, — 
All this seemed at my shoulder, and I dared not look be- 
hind, 
But I said in my own heart, it is but the second sight 
Of the day when I shall kiss him, all beautiful and bright. 

Then I made my box ready to go across the sea, 
My boy had sent a ticket, so my passage it was free ; 
Eut all the time I longed that some little gift I had 
To take across the ocean to my own dear lad ; 
A pin, or a chain, or something of the kind, 
Just to 'mind the poor boy of the land he 'd left behind. 
But I was too poor to buy it, so I 'd nothing left to do 
But to go to the old farm, the homestead that he knew ; 
To the handsome green hill where my Donal used to play, 
And cut a sod of shamrock for the exile far away. 

All through the voyage I nursed it, and watered it each day, 
And kept its green leaves sheltered from the salt-sea 

spray. 
And I 'd bring it upon deck when the sun was shining 

fair, 
To watch its triple leaflets opening slowly in the air. 



TEE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 31 

At first the sailors langhed at mj little sod of grass, 
But when they knew my object they gently let me pass ; 
And the ladies in the cabin were very kind to me ; 
They made me tell the story of my boy across the sea : 
So I told them of my Donal, and his fair, manly face, 
Till bare speaking of my darling made a sunshine in the 
place. 

We landed at the Battery in New York's big bay, 
The sun was shining grandly, and the wharves looked gay. 
But I could see no sunshine nor beauty in the place, 
•What I only cared to look on was Donal's sweet face ; 
But in all the great crowd, and I turned everywhere, 
I could not see a sign of him, — my darling was not there ; 
I asked the men around me to go and find my son. 
But they only stared or laughed, and left me, one by one, 
Till at last an old countryman came up to me and said — 
How could I live to hear it 1 — that Donal was dead I 

The shamrock sod is growing on Greenwood's hill-side. 

It grows above the heart of my darling and my pride ; 

And on summer days I sit by the headstone all day. 

With my heart growing old and my head growing gray ; 

And I watch the dead leaves whirl from the sycamore- 
trees, 

And wonder why it is that I can't die like these ; 

But I think that this same winter, and from my heart I 
hope, 

I '11 be lying nice and quiet upon Greenwood's slope, 

With my darling close beside me underneath the trickling 
dew. 

And the shamrocks creeping pleasantly above us two. 



32 AMAZON. 



AMAZON. 

I BURN to tell my love ; to call her mine ; 

To pour upon her heart the fiery tide 
That fills my own ; to open my soul's shrine 

And show her her own image deified ! 

But vain the web my brain untiring weaves ; 

For hours I school in vain my spellbound tongue. 
My passion hangs, unuttered, on the eaves 

Of my soul's portal. Of a love unsung 
I am the minstrel, for I sing alone. 

My own heart is my hermitage, and there 
I chant impassioned hymns, and weep, and groan, 

And to love's phantom dedicate my prayer. 
When on a lonely couch my head I lay, 

"What mystic eloquence comes to me unsought ! 
In fervent litanies to her I pray, 

And tell my love in rosaries of thought. 
A bold and reckless suitor in the night, — 

A weak and silent coward in the day ; 
When all is dark I long to greet the light. 

But dazzled when light comes, I turn away ! 

O, you should see her ! She is, of all queens 

That drive their chariots over bleeding hearts, 
The loveliest one ! Not by her sex's means 

She won her throne. She has no need of arts. 
Born to enslave, she conquers with a glance ; 

All blandishments and subtile wiles disdains ; 
A heretic to the antique romance, 

To know she is, is knowing that she reigns. 



AMAZON. 33 

Like the phosphoric trees in forests dark 

She lights all hearts, and yet herself is cold ; 

And woe to him who, dazzled by the spark, 
Hopes for a heat her heart can never hold ! 

But she is beautiful ! No vocal dream 

Warbled in slumber by the nightingale, 
Can match her voice's music. Sculptors seem, 

When most inspired, to copy her — and fail ! 
To gaze on her is song unto the sight ; 

A harmony of vision, heaven-sent, 
Where all the tones of human charms unite, 

And are in one majestic woman blent ! 

But once I thought she loved me. Bitter hour, 

Whose mingled joy and torment haunt me still ! 
Her eyes look out from every starry flower ; 

I hear her mocking laugh in every rill. 
Yet on this grief I love to muse alone — 

It is a key that hath my nature tuned ; 
Upon my riven heart I gaze as one 

Grows to companionship with even his wound. 

'T was in the autumn woods we rode one morn 

To hunt the deer, with wild and willing steeds. 
The young wind gayly blew his mellow horn, 

And beat the tangled coverts of the reeds. 
The golden elms tossed high their lucent leaves, 

While on their giant boles, so rough in form. 
The rugged bark stood out in corded sheaves, 

Like muscles swoln in wrestling with the storm! 

A sudden, wayward fancy seized us here 
To pause and act a leafy masquerade. 



34 AMAZON. 

No idle tongues nor curious eyes were near, 

And silent splendor filled the sunlit glade. 
So, gathering armfuls of the autumn vines, 

I wove their red ropes round the passive girl, 
Looping the tendrils of the blushing vines 

Round arms, and head, and each escaping curl. 
Then through her horse's mane that blackly shone, 

I plaited mosses long and leaden-hued, 
Until she seemed like some young Amazon 

Chained by the mighty monach of the wood. 

mockery of conquest ! Hidden sting ! 

triumph treacherous as the sleeping seas ! 
She played the captive, — /, the victor-king, 

Threading triumphal arches through the trees ! 

Sudden, with one wild burst of regal might 

She flung her fluttering fetters to the wind ; 
She and her steed with bound of fierce delight 

Dashed-through the crashing boughs that closed behind. 
And so she vanished. From the distance dim 

Her scornful laughter floated to my ear ; 
A jest for her, — for me a funeral hymn. 

Sung o'er a love that froze upon its bier ! 

How shall I conquer her 1 Since that cursed day 
Her image stands between me and the world ! 

Around my cuj) of life where flowers should lay, 
Forbidding me, a poisoned snake is curled. 

As heron chased by hawk I soar through space, 
The fatal shafts of her disdain to shun. 

And seek the clouds ; but vain the dizzy race, — 

1 find her still between me and the sun ! 



THE MAN AT THE DOOR. 35 

queen, enthroned upon an icy height, 

What holocaust does thy proud heart desire 1 
When will it flame like beacon through the night 

With fiery answer to another's fire *? 
Ah ! why so cold — so ever cold to me "i 

I chafe — I chafe all day from daWn to dark, 
As chafes the wave of Adria's glowing sea 

Against the pulseless marble of Saint Mark ! 



THE MAN AT THE DOOR. 

I. 

How joyous to-day is the little old town, 

With banners and streamers as cheery as spring ! 
They flutter on turrets and battlements brown, 

And the ancient cathedral is fine as a king. 
The sexton a nosegay has put in his breast. 

And his face is as bright as a Jericho rose. 
That, after a century's withering rest, 

Unwrinkles its petals and suddenly blows. 

II. 

The brown-breasted swallows aloft and alow 

Swoop faster and further than ever before, 
And I 'm sure that the cock on the steeple will crow 

When he hears from the city the jubilant roar. 
The girls are as gay as a holiday fleet, 

Their ribbons are streaming from bosom and hair. 
And they laugh in the face of each young man they meet, 

And the young men reply with an insolent stare. 



36 THE MAN AT THE DOOR. 

III. 

'T is not without reason the old town is gay, 

And banners and ribbons are reddening the air, 
For beautiful Bertha will marry to-day 

With gallant young Albert, the son of the Mayor. 
He is brown as a nut from the hazels of Spain ; 

Her face, like the twilight, is pensive and sweet ; 
As they march hand in hand through the murmuring 
lane. 

Low blessings, like flowers, fall unseen at their f^et. 



IV. 

While they sweep like twin barks through the waves of 
the crowd, 

A story is falling from many a tongue. 
Of the young gypsy prince who, a year ago, bowed 

At the shrine where a hundred their passion had sung; 
And how Bertha heaped scorn on his love and his race. 

How she flung in the street the rich presents he sent. 
Until he, with the hatred of hell in his face. 

Went sullenly back to his tribe and his tent. 



Soon all stories are hushed in a gathering roar. 

And the people sway back like the ebb of a tide. 
And the rosy old sexton stands by the church-door, 

To merrily welcome the bridegroom and bride : 
But his glee is so great that he does not behold 

The tall man that stands near the pillar, hard by, 
Nor the flash of the dagger that 's hafted with gold. 

Nor the still keener flash of the lowering eye. 



THE ENCHANTED TITAN. 37 

VI. 
On they come, and the sexton bows low to the ground, 

The bride smiles a welcome, the bells ring a chime. 
While a grand acclamation, in surges of sound, 

Thrills up through the sky like a sonorous rhyme. 
They are under the porch — when, one dash through the 
crowd. 

One flash of a dagger, one shriek of despair. 
And Bertha falls dead ; while, stern-visaged and proud. 

The swarthy-skinned prince of the gypsies is there ! 

VII. 

How sombre to-day is the little old town. 

With mourning, and sables, and funeral display; 
Long weepers are hanging from battlements brown. 

And the ancient cathedral is haggard and gray. 
The sexton a white rose has put in his breast. 

While his face is as blank as a snow-laden sky ; 
For Bertha and Albert have gone to their rest. 

And the prince of the gypsies is swinging on high. 



THE ENCHANTED TITAN. 

I. 

Curse you ! 0, a hundred thousand curses 
Weigh upon your soul, you black enchanter ! 

Could I pour them like the coins from purses, 
I would utter such a pile instanter 

As would crush you to a bloody pulp. 

But my rage I fain am forced to gulp ; 



38 THE ENCHANTED TITAN. 

Anathemas are vain against cold iron, 

Nor can I swear this magic box asunder, 
Where I 've been stifling since the days of Chiron, 

Fretting on tempered bolts, and hurling muffled thunder. 

II. 

Through the chinks I see the dim green waters 

Filled with sunshine, or with moonlight hazy ; 
Through them swim the oceanic daughters, 

Beautiful enough to drive me crazy. 
The fishes gaze at me with sphery eyes, 
And seem to say, with cold-blooded surprise. 
What Titan is it, that 's so barred and bolted, 

Caged like a rat in some infernal cellar ] 
Why even Enceladus, when the dog revolted, 

Was not so hardly treated by the Cloud-Compeller ! 

III. 
And all, forsooth, because I loved his daughter ! 

Loved that child of spells and incantation ; 
Love her now, beneath this dreary water. 

Love her through eternal tribulation ! 
I wonder if her lips lament me still, 
In her enchanted castle on the hill 1 
Or has she yielded to that damned magician, 

And with my pygmy rival weakly wedded 1 
Jove ! the torment of this bare suspicion 

Preying forever on my heart, and like the Hydra headed ! 

IV. 

bitter day, when spells, like snakes uprearing, 
Enwrapped my limbs, and, muscular as pliant. 

Pinioned my struggling arms, until despairing 
I lay upon the earth, a captured giant ! 



LOSS. 39 

Then came the horror of this iron box, — 
The closing of its huge enchanted locks ; 
Then the cursed wizard to the windy summit 

Of the tall cape a coffered prisoner bore me, 
And flung me off, until, like seaman's plummet, 

I sank, and the drear ocean closed forever o'er me! 



LOSS. 



Stretched silver-spun the spider's nets ; 

The quivering sky was white with fire ; 
The blackbird's scarlet epaulettes 

Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire. 

The mountain, in his purple cloak, 

His feet with misty vapors wet, 
Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke 

All day his giant calumet. 

From farm-house bells the noonday rung ; 

The teams that ploughed the furrows stopped ; 
The ox refreshed his lolling tongue, 

And brows were wiped and spades were dropped ; 

And down the field the mowers stepped, 
With burning brows and figures Hthe, 

As in their brawny hands they swept 
From side to side the hissing scythe ; 

Till sudden ceased the noonday task. 

The scythes 'mid swaths of grass lay still, 

As girls with can and cider-flask 
Came romping gayly down the hill. 



40 LOSS. 

And over all there swept a stream 
Of subtile music, felt, not heard, 

As when one conjures in a dream 
The distant singing of a bird. 

I drank the glory of the scene. 

Its autumn splendor fired my veins ; 

The woods were like an Indian queen 
Who gazed upon her old domains. 

And ah ! methought I heard a sigh 
Come softly through her leafy lips ; 

A mourning over days gone by. 

That were before the white man's ships. 

And so I came to think on Loss, — 
I never much could think on Gain j 

A poet oft will woo a cross 

On whom a crown is pressed in vain. 

I came to think — I know not how. 

Perchance through sense of Indian wrong 

Of losses of my own, that now 

Broke for the first time into song ; — 

A fluttering strain of feeble words 

That scarcely dared to leave my breast ; 

But like a brood of fledgling birds 

Kept hovering round their natal nest. 

' loss ! ' I sang, — ' early loss ! 

blight that nipped the buds of spring ! 
spell that turned the gold to dross ! 

steel that clipped the imtried wing ! 



LOSS. 41 

* I mourn all days, as sorrows he 

Whom once they called a merchant prince 
Over the ships he sent to sea, 
And never, never heard of since. 

* To ye, woods, the annual May 

Kestores the leaves ye lost before ; 
The tide that now forsakes the bay 

This night will wash the widowed shore. 

* But I shall never see again 

The shape that smiled upon my youth ; 
A mist of sorrow veils my brain, 
And dimly looms the light of truth. 

* She faded, fading woods, like you ! 

And fleeting shone with sweeter grace ; 
And as she died, the colors grew 
To softer splendor in her face. 

* Until one day the hectic flush 

Was veiled with death's eternal snow ; 
She swept from earth amid a hush, 
And I was left alone below ! ' 

While thus I moaned I heard a peal 
Of laughter through the meadows flow ; 

I saw the farm-boys at their meal, — 
I saw the cider circling go. 

And still the mountain calmly slept. 

His feet with valley vapors wet ; 
And slowly circling upward crept 

The smoke from out his calumet. 



42 OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

Mine was the sole discordant breath 

That marred this dream of peace below. 

'0 God ! ' I cried, *give, give me death, 
Or give me grace to bear thy blow ! * 



OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

Madam Millionnaire, 
So wealthy and so fair, 

1 know how rich and rare 

Is your Christmas-tree. 
There the ruddy apples swing, 
And the gilded bonbons cling, 
And 't is gaudy as a king 

In some Indian sea. 

A hundred tapers shine 
In the foliage of the pine, 
And gifts of rare design 

Make the branches gay. 
And in the outer room. 
Decked with satin and with plume, 
Like roses in their bloom, 

Sweet children play. 

But this very Christmas night, 
When your home 's so warm and bright. 
And your children's hearts are light 
As the thistle's down. 



OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 43 

I am sitting by my hearth, 
With not a ray of mirth, 
But a feeling as of dearth. 
And, I fear, a frown. 



For I 'm very, very poor. 
And the wolf is at my door. 
And a shadow 's on my floor 

That will not pass by ; 
But I do not envy you, 
For my heart at least is true. 
And, thank God, there are so few 

As poor as I ! 



The weary mother sits 
On a little stool, and knits. 
While across her face there flits 

Look sad to see. 
Our eldest gravely sighs 
With a face of sad surmise. 
And our youngest darling cries 

For her Christmas-tree. 



So I hush the little one. 
And talk cheerly to my son, 
And try to make some fun 

Out of Christmas-trees ; 
And I tell them how I Ve planned 
A tree more fine and grand 
Than ever grew on land 

Or by distant seas. 



44 OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

My tree is very high, — 
For it reaches to the sky, 
And sweet birds passing by 

There fold their wings. 
Its leaves are ever green. 
With a wondrous glossy sheen, 
And the summer wind serene 

Around it sings. 



And I 've hung upon my tree 
A myriad gifts you see, 
And all the world is free 

To come and take. 
There is love and gentle mirth, 
There 's a happy home and hearth, 
And " Peace to all on earth," 

For the Christ-child's sake. 



There are sweet and soothing words 
Melodious as the birds, 
There is charity that herds 

With the poor forlorn. 
There are pardons for all wrongs, 
And cheerful peasant songs. 
And the virtue that belongs 

To the country born. 

There are merry marriage bells, 
There 's the noble heart that swells 
When first young nature tells 
Of great manly hopes. 



THE POT OF GOLD. 45 

And underneath, alas ! 
A tiny wreath we pass, 
That once withered on the grass 
Of Greenwood's slopes. 

So, Madam Millionnaire, 
Your tree, I know, is fair, 
But it can not quite compare 

With this I see : 
For heaven has blessed the shoots, 
And fancy riped the fruits, 
And my heart is round the roots 

Of our Christmas-tree. 



THE POT OF GOLD. ' 

The sun flung wide its golden arms 
Above the dripping woods of Maine, 

And wove across the misty sky 
The seven-dyed ribbon of the rain. 

An old wife at the cottage door 

Sat with her grandson by her knee. 

And watched the rainbow belt the clouds 
And span the world from sea to sea. 

Then, in that quiet evening hour, 

The wondering boy a tale she told, — 

How he who sought the rainbow's foot 
Would find beneath a pot of gold. 



46 THE POT OF GOLD. 

The eager boy drank in the tale, — 
His eyes were filled with feverish fire ; 

And in his fluttering heart there leaped 
A wild, impulsive, vague desire. 

And as the gorgeous sun went down, 

And from the skies the mists were rolled, 

He stole with hurrying step away 
To seek the wondrous pot of gold. 

Through lonesome woods with whispering leaves. 
That sung an endless forest hymn. 

Where shadowy cat-birds wailed unseen, 
And squirrels leaped from limb to limb, — 

By rivers thundering to the sea, 

By ragged hill and gloomy glen, 
Through swamps where slept the sluggish air, 

And by the pleasant homes of men, — 

The strange boy wandered night and day, 
His eyes still filled with quenchless fire j 

While still within his heart there grew 
That wild, impulsive, vague desire. 

Men marvelled as he passed them by 
With weary step and lagging pace ; 

And women, as they saw him, sighed 
In pity for his childlike face. 

And many asked why thus he went 

O'er hill and flood, through heat and cold ; 

While he the steadfast answer made, 
" I go to seek the pot of gold." 



THE POT OF GOLD. 47 

And then they smiled, and told the boy 
That many a youth that quest had tried, 

And some had fainted by the way, 

And all had failed, and most had died. 

For never had the mystic goal 

By any human foot been trod ; 
The secret of the rainbow's base 

Was known but to its builder — God. 

He heard, but heeded not : his eyes 

Were fixed upon the horizon's brim. 
What mattered to him others' fate, — 

'T was not the fate in store for him. 

And still the rainbow came and went, 

And scarf-like hung about the sun ; 
And still the seeker's restless soul 

Sang of the treasure to be won. 

So went the time — till one dark day. 

When flesh and blood could bear no more, 

Haggard and pale he fainting fell 

Close by the well-known cottage door. 

With quivering lips he told his tale ; 

The pitying tears above him fell ; 
Once more around his couch he heard 

The voices that he loved so well. 

And soon a modest, mild-eyed man. 

With quiet tones, stood at his side, 
Telling a sweet, entrancing tale 

Of One who suffered and who died ; — 



48 MINOT'S LEDGE. 

And talked about a treasure, too, 

Through pain and suffering to be won, 

That lay beyond the rainbow arch, — 
Ay, and beyond the parent sun. 

As the boy heard the simple words, 
From out his eyes the fierce fire fled. 

And straight an unseen presence wove 
A calmer splendor round his head. 

And so his young life ebbed away ; 

His heart was still, his limbs were cold ; 
But by the smile upon his face 

They knew he 'd found the pot^f gold ! 



MINOT'S LEDGE. 

Like spectral hounds across the sky 

The white clouds scud before the storm. 
And naked in the howling night 

The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
The waves with slippery fingers clutch 

The massive tower, and climb and fall, 
And, muttering, growl with baffled rage 

Their curses on the sturdy wall. 

Up in the lonely tower he sits. 

The keeper of the crimson light, — 

Silent and awe-struck does he hear 
The imprecations of the night. 



MINOT'S LEDGE. 49 

The white spray beats against the panes, 
Like some wet ghost that down the air 

Is hunted by a troop of fiends, 
And seeks a shelter anywhere. 



He prays aloud — the lonely man — 

For every soul that night at sea. 
But more than all for that brave boy 

Who used to gayly climb his knee, — 
Young Charley, with the chestnut hair 

And hazel eyes and laughing lip : 
"May Heaven look down," the old man cries, 

" Upon my son, and on his ship ! " 

While thus with pious heart he prays, 

Far in the distance sounds a boom : 
He pauses, and again there rings 

That sullen thunder through the room. 
A ship upon the shoal to-night ! 

She cannot hold for one half-hour ! 
But clear the ropes and grappling-hooks. 

And trust in the Almighty Power ! 

On the drenched gallery he stands, 

Striving to pierce the solid night ; 
Across the sea the red eye throws 

A steady wake of crimson light, 
And where it falls upon the waves 

He sees a human head float by. 
With long, drenched curls of chestnut hair, 

And wild but fearless hazel eye. 
4 



50 THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 

Out with the hooks ! One mighty fling ! 

Adown the wind the long rope curls. 
0, will it catch ? Ah, dread suspense ! 

While the wild ocean wilder whirls. 
A steady pull — it tautens now ! 

0, his old heart will burst with joy 
As on the slippery rocks he drags 

The breathing body of his boy. 

Still sweep the spectres through the sky, 

Still scud the clouds before the storm. 
Still naked in the howling night 

The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
Without, the world is wild with rage, 

Unkennelled demons are abroad. 
But with the father and the son. 

Within, there is the peace of God. 



THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 

Trinity bells with their hollow lungs, 

And their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues, 

Over the roofs of the city pour 

Their Easter music with joyous roar. 

Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled 

As be swings along in his path of gold. 

" Dearest papa," says my boy to me, 

As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee, 



THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 61 

" Why are these eggs that you see me hold 
Colored so fiuely with blue and gold 1 
And what is the wonderful bird that lays 
Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days]" 

Tenderly shine the April skies, 

Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes, 

And every face in the street is gay, — 

Why cloud this youngster's by saying nay 'i 

So I cudgel my brains for the tale he begs, 

And tell him this story of Easter eggs : — 

You have heard, my boy, of the Man who died. 

Crowned with keen thorns and crucified ; 

And how Joseph the wealthy — whom God reward ! — 

Cared for the corse of his martyred Lord, 

And piously tombed it within the rock. 

And closed the gate with a mighty block. 

Now close by the tomb a fair tree grew. 
With pendulous leaves, and blossoms of blue ; 
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast 
A beautiful singing bird sat on her nest. 
Which was bordered with mosses like malachite, 
And held four eggs of an ivory white. 

Now when the bird from her dim recess 
Beheld the Lord in his burial dress. 
And looked on the heavenly face so pale. 
And the dear hands pierced with the cruel nail, 
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang. 
And out of the depths of her sorrow she sang. 

All night long till the moon was up 

She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup. 



52 THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 

A song of sorrow as wild and shrill 

As the homeless wind when it roams the hill, 

So full of tears, so loud and long, 

That the grief of the world seemed turned to song. 

But soon there came through the weeping night 

A glittering angel clothed in white ; 

And he rolled the stone from the tomb away, 

Where the Lord of the earth and the heavens lay ; 

And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom, 

And in living lustre came from the tomb. 

Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree 
Beheld this celestial mystery. 
And its heart was filled with a sweet delight, 
And it poured a song on the throbbing night ; 
Notes climbing notes, till higher, higher, 
They shot to heaven like spears of fire. 

When the glittering, white-robed angel heard 

The sorrowing song of the grieving bird. 

And, after, the jubilant psean of mirth 

That hailed Christ risen again on earth, 

He said, " Sweet bird, be forever blest. 

Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss- wreathed nest ! " 

And ever, my child, since that blessed night. 
When death bowed down to the Lord of light, 
The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue, 
And burn with red and gold and blue. 
Reminding mankind in their simple way 
Of the holy marvel of Easter day. 



DOWN IN THE GLEN AT IDLEWILD. 63 



DOW:^' IN THE GLEN AT IDLEWILD. 

The red moon, like a golden grape, 

Hangs slowly ripening in the sky, 
And o'er the helmets of the hills 

Like plumes the summer lightnings fly. 
The solemn pine-trees stoop above 

The brook, that, like a sleeping child, 
Lies babbling of its simple dreams 

Down in the glen at Idlewild. 

The red mill in the distance sleeps, — 

The old mill that, when winter comes, 
Wakes to a wild, spasmodic life, 

And through the rocky channel hums. 
And starry-flowered water-plants, 

With myriad eyes of moistened light, 
Peep coyly from their sheltered nooks, — 

The shy companions of the night. 

But brighter than the starry flowers 

There shine a maiden's lustrous eyes. 
And yellower shines her yellow hair 

Than the full moon that floods the skies, 
As where the waters kiss the cliff" 

She waits for him, the pearl of men, 
And idly plucks the ivy leaves. 

And listens, and then waits again. 

She waits to hear the well-known call, 

The echoes of the agile foot. 
The bursting of the lacing boughs, 

The crackling of the fragile root ; 



54 WANTED — SAINT PATRICK. 

But ah ! the path is steep and dark, 
The jagged rocks lie far below ; 

And heaven must help the wight who slips, 
Up where those treacherous mosses grow. 

At last he comes ! she hears his step ! 

But ah ! what means that fearful crash 1 
Down the steep cliff a dark shape falls, — 

From rock to rock she sees it dash. 
Was it for this you waited long, 

loving heart ! hapless child ! 
Dead at her feet her lover lies, 

Down in the glen at Idlewild ! 



WANTED — SAINT PATRICK. 



When Irish hills were fair and green, 

And Irish fields were white with daisies, 
And harvests, golden and serene. 

Slept in the lazy summer hazes ; 
W^hen bards went singing through the land 

Their grand old songs of knightly story, 
And hearts were found in every hand. 

And all was peace, and love, and glory ; — 
'T was in those happy, happy days 

When every peasant lived in clover, 
And in the pleasant woodland ways 

One never met the begging rover ; 



WANTED — SAINT PATRICK. 55 

When all was honest, large, and true, 
And naught was hollow or theatric ; — 

'T was in those days of golden hue 

That Erin knew the great Saint Patrick. 



II. 

He came among the rustics rude 

With shining robes and splendid crosier, 
And swayed the listening multitude 

As breezes sway the beds of osier. 
He preached the love of man for man, 

And moved the unlettered Celt with wonder, 
Till through the simple crowd there ran 

A murmur like repeated thunder. 
He preached the grand Incarnate Word 

By rock and ruin, hill and hollow, 
Till warring princes dropped the sword 

And left the fields of blood to follow. 
For never yet did bardic song. 

Though graced with harp and poet's diction, 
With such strange charm enchain the throng 

As that sad tale of crucifixion. 



III. 
Though fair the isle and brave the men, 

Yet still a blight the land infested ; 
Green vipers darted through each glen, 

And snakes within the woodlands nested ; 
And 'mid the banks where violets blew, 

And on the slopes where bloomed the primrose, 
Lurked spotted toads of loathsome hue, 

And coiling, poisonous serpents grim rose. 



66 WANTED — ST. PATRICK. 

Saint Patrick said : " The reptile race 

Are types of human degradation ; 
From other ills I 've cleansed the place. 

And now of these I '11 rid the nation.'* 
He waved his crosier o'er his head, 

And lo ! each venomed thing took motion. 
And toads and snakes and vipers fled 

In terror to the circling ocean. 

IV. 

Why is Saint Patrick dead ? or why 

Does he not seek this soil to aid ns 1 
To wave his mystic crook on high, - — » 

And rout the vermin that degrade ns iV 
Our land is fertile, broad, and fair, 

And should be fairer yet and broader ; 
But noxious reptiles taint the air, 

And poison peace, and law, and order. 
For murder stalks along each street, 

And theft goes lurking through our alleys, — 
What reptiles worse does traveller meet 

On India's hills, in Java's valleys 1 
And when we see this gambling host, 

That 'mongst us practise this and that trick, 
One knows not which would serve us most, 

The Goddess Justice or Saint Patrick 1 



THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 57 



THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 



I. 

Hammer and tongs ! What have we here 1 

Let us approach, but not too near. 

Two men standing breast to breast, 

Head erect and arching chest ; 

Shoulders square and hands hard clenched, 

And both their faces a trifle blenched. 

Their lips are set in a smile so grim. 

And sturdily set each muscular. limb. 

Round them circles a ring of rope, 

Over them hangs the heavens' blue cope. y 

Why do they glare at each other so 1 / 

What ! you really then don't know? 

This is a prize-fight, gentle sir ! 

This is what makes the papers stir. 

Talk of your ocean telegraph ! 

'T is n't so great an event by half, 

As when two young men lusty and tall. 

With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
Come together to batter and maul. 
Come to fight till one shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs ! 

II. 
Round about is a bestial crowd, 
Heavily-jawed and beetle-browed ; 
Concave faces, trampled in 
As if with the iron hoof of sin ; 
Blasphemies dripping from off" their lips, 
Pistols bulging behind their hips ; 



58 THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 

Hands accustomed to deal the cards, 

Or strike with the cowardly knuckle-guards. 

Who are these ruffianly fellows, you say, 

That taint the breath of this autumn day 1 

These are " the Fancy," gentle sir. 

The Fancy 1 What are they to her ? 

0, 't is their fancy to look at a fight. 

To see men struggle, and gouge, and bite. 

Bloody noses and bunged-up eyes, — 

These are the things the Fancy prize. 

And so they get men, lusty and tall, 

With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
To come together to batter and maul, 
To come and fight till one shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs ! 

III. 
Grandly the autumn forests shine. 
Red as the gold in an Indian mine ! 
A dreamy mist, a vapory smoke, 
Hangs round the patches of evergi-een oak. 
Over the broad lake shines the sun, — 
The lake that Perry battled upon, — 
Striking the upland fields of maize 
That glow through the soft October haze. 
Nature is tracing with languid hand 
Lessons of peace over lake and land. 
Ay ! yet this is the tranquil spot 
Chosen by bully, assassin, and sot 
To pit two young men, lusty and tall, 

With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
One with the other, to batter and maul, 
To tussle and fight till one shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs ! 



THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 69 



IV. 



Their faces are rich with a healthy hue, 
Their eyes are clear, and bright, and blue ; 
Every muscle is clean and fine, 
And their blood is pare as the purest wine. 
It is a pleasure their limbs to scan, — 
Splendid types of the animal man, 
Splendid types of that human grace, 
The noblest that God has willed to trace, 
Brought to this by science and art ; 
Trained, and nourished, and kept apart ; 
Cunningly fed on the wholesomest food, 
Carefully watched in every mood ; 
Brought to this state, so noble and proud, 
To savagely tussle before a crowd, — 
To dim the light of the eyes so clear. 
To mash the face to a bloody smear, 
To maim, deface, and kill, if they can. 
The glory of all creation, — Man ! 
This the task of those, lusty and tall. 

With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
To bruise and wrestle, and batter and maul, 
And fight till one or the other shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs ! 



With feet firm planted upon the sand, 
Face to face at " the scratch " they stand. 
Feinting first — a blow — a guard ! 
Then some hitting, heavy and hard. 
The round fist falls with a horrible thud ; 
Wherever it falls comes a spout of blood ! 



60 THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 

Blow after blow, fall after fall, 

For twenty minutes they tussle and maul. 

The lips of the one are a gory gash, 

The others are knocked to eternal smash ! 

The bold, bright eyes are bloody and dim. 

And, staggering, shivers each stalwart limb. 

Faces glowing with stupid wrath. 

Hard breaths breathed through a bloody froth ; 

Blind and faint, they rain their blows 

On cheeks like jelly and shapeless nose ; 

While the concave faces around the rope 

Darken with panic or light with hope. 

Till one fierce brute, with a terrible blow. 

Lays the other poor animal low. 

Are these the forms so noble and proud, 

That, kinglike, towered above the crowd 1 

Where are the faces so healthy and fresh ^ 

There ! those illegible masses of flesh ! 

Thus we see men lusty and tall, 

Who, with nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
Will bruise and batter, and tussle and maul, 
And fight till one or the other shall fall, — . 
Hammer and tongs ! 

VI. 

Trainers, backers, and betters all, — 
Who teach young men to tussle and maul. 
And spend their muscle, and blood, and life, 
Given for good, in a loathsome strife, — 
I know what the Devil will do for you, 
You pistolling, bullying, cowardly crew ! 
He '11 light up his furnaces red and blue, 
And treat you all to a roast and stew ; 



THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. 61 

0, he '11 do you up, and he '11 do you brown, 

On pitchforks cleft into mighty prongs, 
While chuckling fiends your agonies crown 
By stirring you up and keeping you down 
With hammer and tongs ! 



THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. 

I. 

Fast through the sombre pine-forests I flash, 
Pounding the track with monotonous crash, 
Lighting the gloom with a comet-like glare, 
Thrilling with noises unearthly the air. 
Startling the turkey and coon from their sleep, — 
Mighty with motion, resistless I sweep. 

Bong ! Bong ! 

Smashing along ! 
I lighten my road with a bit of a song ! 

II. 

0, 1 can sing, though of iron my throat, 
And discordant my wild, supernatural note ! 
And the song that I sing is of danger and dread, 
The midnight collision, the quivering dead ; 
The power imperial that nothing can stay ; 
The myriad of perils that lurk by the way. 

Bong ! Bong ! 

Crashing along ! 
I shorten the road with a bit of a song ! 



62 THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. 

III. 
Ho there, old stoker ! who think you control 
This iron-ribbed animal, body and soul ; 
Why, one pant of my lungs and one heave of my flank 
"Would flash you down yonder precipitous bank ; 
So don't be too proud of your muscle and bones, 
For sixty feet down there are horrible stones ! 

Ding ! Dong ! 

Bumping along ! 
Don't think that I 'm singing your funeral song ! 

IV. 

For I know that behind me I carry a treasure, 
And it thrills through my nerves with a singular pleasure. 
There the bride by her newly-wed husband reposes, 
And the bronze of his cheek is faint flushed by her roses ; 
And the pale mother sits with her babe at her bosom, 
Like a lily that just has unfolded a blossom. 

Bong ! Bong ! 

Gently along ! 
Soft as the winds of the summer my song ! 



But away with all sentiment ! I am a steed 

That lives on the wild inspiration of speed ! 

I feed upon distance, I grapple with space ; 

My soul is a furnace, — my life is a race ; 

The long prairie shakes with my thunderous tread, 

And my dissonance curdles the air overhead ! 

Bong ! Bong 1 

Madly along ! 
The mountains I split with reverberant song ! 



IRISH CASTLES. 63 

VI. 

Yet sometimes I think, when I 'm housed for the night, 

I may live to behold the decay of my might ; 

For not far from my stable I often behold 

A decrepit old Loco, once gallant and bold ; 

Now his piston is gouty, his boiler is " bust," 

And the gold of his harness is eaten with rust. 

Ding ! Dong ! 

Rotting so long, 
With never a mouthful of coals, or a song! 

VII. 

0, better to die in the hour of my pride ! 

Far better to perish in tunnel or tide ! 

Ha ! what red light is this that 's advancing amain 1 

'T is my rival returning, — the haughty down train ! 

Clear the track ! I 'm upon you ! Hurrah ! what a smash ! 

There, old fellow, I think I have settled your hash ! 

Bong ! Bong ! 

Slowly along ! 
I 'm rather too crippled to finish my song ! 



IRISH CASTLES. 

* Sweet Norah, come here and look into the fire ; 

Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; 
But don't come too near, or your glances so shining 

Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree ! 



64 IKISH CASTLES. 

'Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly they're 
burning : 
There 's a sweet little valley, with river and trees, 
And a house on the bank quite as big as the squire's, — 
Who knows but some day we '11 have something like 
these 1 

' And now there 's a coach and four galloping horses, 
A coachman to drive, and a footman behind ; 

That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, 
And dash through the streets with the speed of the 
wind.' 

As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney 
Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth- 
stone. 

While mansion and carriage in smoke-circles vanished, 
And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone. 

Then Norah to Dermot these words softly whispered : 
* 'T is better to strive than to vainly desire ; 

And our little hut by the roadside is better 

Than palace, and servants, and coach — in the fire ! ' 

'T is years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming, 
Since Norah's sweet counsel effected his cure : 

For ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, 
And now his snug mansion looks down on the Sair. 



LOCH INB. 



LOCH INE. 



65 



I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break, 

And softly fall on the silver sand ; 
And no steps intrude on that solitude, 

And no voice save mine disturbs the strand : 

And a mountain bold, like a giant of old, 
Turned to stone by some magic spell, 

Uprears in might his misty height. 
And his craggy sides are wooded well. 

In the midst doth smile a little isle. 

And its verdure shames the emerald's green : 

On its grassy side, in ruined pride, 
A castle of old is darkling seen. 

On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest ; 

In its halls the sheep good shelter find ; 
And the ivy shades where a hundred blades 

Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclmed. 

That chief of old, could he now behold 
His lordly tower a shepherd's pen. 

His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed 
Would rise, with anger and shame, agam. 

'T is sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays 
Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave. 

But 'tis sweeter far when the evemng star 
Shines like a smile at friendship's grave. 
5 



66 AN APRIL DAY. 

There the hollow shells through their wreathed cells 

Make music on the silent shore, 
As the summer breeze, through the distant trees, 

Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er. 

And the sea-weed shines like the hidden mines, 

Or the fairy cities beneath the sea ; 
And the wave-washed stones are bright as the thrones 

Of the ancient kings of Araby. 

If it were my lot in that fairy spot 

To live forever and dream 't were mine, 

Courts might woo and kings pursue 
Ere I would leave thee, loved Loch Ine. 



AN APRIL DAY. 

This was the day — a year ago — 

When first I saw her, sauntering slow 

Over the meadow and down the lane, 

"Where the privet was shining with recent rain. 

The world had flung its torpor away, 
And breathed the pure air of the April day ; 
The sap was pulsing through maple-trees. 
And the rivers were rushing to meet the seas. 

All the secret thrills that through nature run, 
Silent and swift as the threads of the sun, 
Shook with their tremors each growing thing, 
And worked with the mystic charms of spring. 



AN APRIL DAY. 67 

Like ghosts at the resurrection day, 
The snowdrops arose from the torpid clay, 
And the violets opened their purple eyes, 
And smiled in the face of the tender skies. 

The larch-trees were covered with crimson buds 

Till their branches seemed streaming with sanguine floods ; 

And the ivy looked faded, and old, and sere, 

'Mid the greenness that sprouted everywhere. 

But though the landscape was passing bright 
Her coming lent it a rarer light ; 
A tenderer verdure was on the grass, 
And flowers grew brighter to see her pass. 

Her form and face, as she moved along, 
Seemed like a sweet, incarnate song, — 
A living hymn that the earth, in glee, 
Sung to heaven, the sun, and me. 

So seemed she to me a year ago. 
When first I saw her, sauntering slow 
Over the meadow and down the lane, 
Where the privet shone with the April rain. 

The year is past — entombed — forgot : 
I stand to-day on the selfsame spot : 
Still do the pallid snowdrops rise. 
And the violets open their purple eye^ : 

And a coming greenness is in the lane. 
And the privet glistens with recent rain ; 
The larches sprout, and the blue-birds sing. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of spring ! 



68 JOHNNY. 

But the joy of the world is gone from me ; 
I see no beauty in field or tree ; 
The flower that bloomed in my path is crushed ; 
The music that solaced my life is hushed. 

I see her tombstone from where I stand, — 
Stark and stiff", like a ghastly hand 
Pointing to heaven, as if to say. 
There we shall meet, some April day ! 



JOHNNY. 

I CARE not how you have been blest — 
No maiden ever yet possessed 

A lover like my lover. 
His eyes were of a dancing blue ; 
His chestnut hair was just the hue 

That flecks the golden plover. 

'T was on a dreamy night in June, 
When earth and heaven throbbed in tune, 

That first he told his passion. 
Together we were sauntering down 
The lonely road that led to town, 

In most romantic fashion. 

He took my hand in his, and placed 
His other arm about my waist ; 

His heart went clicky clacket. 
And 'midst an incoherent flow 
Of protestations deep and low. 

He pressed me to — his jacket. 



JOHNNY. 69 

I eight and twenty years had seen, 
And Johnny was not quite thirteen ; 

Yet justice I must render : 
'Mid all the swains I 've had since then — 
And some of them were charming men — 

I ne'er had one more tender. 

He swore he loved me more than life ; 
He 'd die if I were not his wife ; 

I was his only jewel ; 
He dreamed of me by day and night ; 
I was his sun, his star, his light, — 

In fact, all kinds of fuel. 

I dared not let him see the smile 
That glimmered on my lips the while 

He madly was entreating ; 
For worlds I would not cause to smart 
The honest, manly little heart 

That in his breast was beating. 

Then he — ah ! cunning little Jack — 
Kehearsed a speech from Telemaque — 

A fact he did not mention ; 
While I, with half-averted face. 
Kept listening, with the utmost grace 

And most profound attention. 

He wished to fly to some far isle 
Where summer skies forever smile, 

And fruits are in profusion ; 
And there, away from haunts of men. 
We 'd live the golden age again, 

In exquisite seclusion. 



70 JOHNNY. 

The sun of love our days should gild, 
And stalwart he would straightway build 

A beautiful pavilion ; 
And we would live on deer and fish, 
With grapes as much as we could wish, 

And kisses by the million. 

I listened gravely to his plan — 
The loving, noble little man — 

So earnest and so funny ; 
Then hinted that to reach this haunt 
Of wedded bliss, why, we might want 

A little ready money. 

The blow was fatal : Johnny's face 
Grew solemn at a fearful pace, 

And silently we parted. 
I went my way : he went to bed 
Revolving finance in his head, 

And nearly broken-hearted. 

I need not say we did not fly 
To that eternal summer sky, 

So far across the water. 
I hear no more of Telemaque, — 
For I, in short, may say that Jack 

Is married to my daughter. 



THE SKATERS. 71 



THE SKATERS. 



Like clouds they scud across the ice, 
His hand holds hers as in a vice ; 
The moonlight strikes the back-blown hair 
Of handsome Madge and Rupert Clare. 

The ice resounds beneath the steel ; 
It groans to feel his spurning steel ; 
While ever with the following wind 
A shadowy skater flits behind. 

* Why skate we thus, so far from land 1 

Rupert Clare, let go my hand ! 

1 cannot see — I cannot hear — 
The wind about us moans with fear ! * 

His hand is stifFer than a vice, 
His touch is colder than the ice. 
His face is paler than the moon 
That paves with light the lone lagoon ! 

* Rupert Clare, I feel — I trace 
A something awful in your face ! 

You crush my hand — you sweep me on — 
Until my breath and sense are gone ! * 

His grasp is stifFer than a vice, 
His touch is colder than the ice ; 
She only hears the ringing tune 
Of skates upon the lone lagoon. 



72 THE SKATEES. 

* Rupert Clare ! sweet Rupert Clare ! 
For heaven's mercy hear my prayer ! 

I could not help my heart you know ! 
Poor Willy Gray, — he loves me so ! ' 

His grip is stiflfer than a vice, 
His lip is bluer than the ice ; 
While ever thrills the ringing tune 
Of skates along the lone lagoon. 

* Rupert Clare ! where are your eyes 1 
The rotten ice before us lies ! 

You dastard ! Loose your hold, I say ! — 
God ! Where are you, WiUy Gray 1 ' 

A shriek that seems to split the sky, — 
A wilder light in Rupert's eye, — 
She cannot — cannot loose that grip ; 
His sinewy arm is round her hip ! 

But like an arrow on the wind 

The shadowy skater scuds behind ; 

The lithe ice rises to the stroke 

Of steel-shod heels that seem to smoke. 

He hurls himself upon the pair ; 
He tears his bride from Rupert Clare ; 
His fainting Madge, whose moist eyes say, 
Ah ! here, at last, is Willy Gray ! 

The lovers stand with heart to heart, — 
' No more,' they cry, ' no more to part ! ' 
But still along the lone lagoon 
The steel skates ring a ghostly tune ! 



THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET. 73 

And ill the moonlight, pale and cold, 
The panting lovers still behold 
The self-appointed sacrifice 
Skating toward the rotten ice ! 



THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET. 

There was no west, there was no east, 

No star abroad for eye to see ; 
And Norman spurred his jaded beast 

Hard by the terrible gallows-tree. 

* Norman, haste across this waste, — 
For something seems to follow me ! ' 

' Cheer up, dear Maud, for, thanked be God, 
We nigh have passed the gallows-tree ! ' 

He kissed her lip : then — spur and whip ! 

And fast they fled across the lea ! 
But vain the heel and rowel steel, — 

For something leaped from the gallows-tree ! 

'Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak. 
That wrapped you oft beyond the sea ; 

The wind is bold, my bones are old, 
And I am cold on the gallows-tree.' 

' holy God ! dearest Maud, 

Quick, quick, some prayers, — the best that be ! 
A bony hand my neck has spanned, 

And tears my knightly cloak from me ! ' 



74 THE WHARF RAT. 

* Give me your wine, — the red, red wine, 

That in the flask hangs by your knee ! 
Ten summers burst on me accurst. 
And I 'm athirst on the gallows-tree.' 

* Maud, my life ! my loving wife ! 

Have you no prayer to set us free 1 
My belt unclasps, — a demon grasps 

And drags my wine-flask from my knee ! ' 

' Give me your bride, your bonnie bride. 
That left her nest with you to flee ! 

0, she hath flown to be my own. 
For I 'm alone on the gallows-tree ! ' 

* Cling closer, Maud, and trust in God ! 

Cling close ! — Ah, heaven, she slips from me ! ' 
A prayer, a groan, and he alone 

Rode on that night from the gallows-tree. 



THE WHARF RAT. 

I. 

The wharf is silent and black, and motionless lie the ships; 

The ebb-tide sucks at the piles with its cold and slimy lips; 

And down through the tortuous lane a sailor comes sing- 
ing along. 

And a girl in the Gallipagos isles is the burden of his 
song, 



THE HAVELOCK. 75 

II. 
Behind the white cotton bales a figure is crouching low ; 
It listens with eager ears, as the straggling footsteps go. 
It follows the singing sailor, stealing upon his track, 
And when he reaches the river-side, the wharf rat 's at 
his back. 

III. 

A man is missing next day, and a paragraph tells the fact; 

But the way he went, or the road he took, will never, 
never be tracked ! 

For the lips of the tide are dumb, and it keeps such se- 
crets well, 

And the fate of the singing sailor boy the wharf rat alone 
can tell. 



THE HAVELOCK. 

On southern uplands I was born. 

Kissed by the lips of the golden morn ; 

Strong, and tall, and straight was I, 

And my white plumes danced as the wind went by, 

Till the hills above and the vales below 

Seemed drowned in a mist of drifting snow. 

But by and by my plumes were stripped 
By negroes lusty and dusky-lipped, 
And they bore me off to a darksome mill, 
With jaws and teeth that never were still ; 
And there I was mangled and whirled about. 
Till it chewed me iip and it spat me out. 



76 THE HAVELOCK. 

Bagged and bound with canvas and rope, 
I hung on the edge of a dizzy slope, 
Till I saw the panting steamer glide 
Close to the edge of the terrible slide, 
When they pushed me over and let me go, 
And swift as a bullet I plunged below. 

So down the river they bore me then, 

And passed me over to trading men, 

And bartered me oft', and shipped me to sea, 

From the crowded wharf of the long levee ; 

And so we sailed for many a day. 

Till the mud of the Mersey around us lay. 

Through dingy factories then I passed. 
Where flickered the shuttle flashing fast ; 
And British fingers all wan and thin 
With labor, and hunger, and drink, and sin, 
Twisted my threads, in the fetid gloom. 
And wove them close on the whirring loom. 

So back to my country I came again, 

Fit for the uses of busy men ; 

And the time went by, till one summer day 

In a beautiful maiden's lap I lay. 

While with scissors, and thimble, and needle, and thread, 

She fashioned me thus for a soldier's head. 

For the light of battle was in the sky. 

And the armed thousands were hurrying by, 

And tlie brawny farmer and slender clerk 

Were side by side in the holy work ; 

For a wondrous fire through the people ran, — 

Through maid, and woman, and child, and man. 



THE HAVELOCK. 77 

Ah ! 't was a tender and sorrowful day 
When the soldier lover w^ent marching away ; 
For that selfsame morn he had called her bride, 
As they stood at the altar side by side ; 
Then with one long kiss and a hushed good-by 
He went with his comrades to do or die ! 

To-day I am on the selfsame earth 

That nourished my parents and gave me birth ; 

But the waving snow is no longer there, 

And muskets flash in the sunlit air, 

And the hillside shakes with the heavy tramp 

Of the hostile armies from camp to camp. 

And the head that I cover is thinking now 
Of the fair hands that placed me upon his brow, 
And wonders whether, in the coming fight 
That will redden these southern slopes to-night, 
I shall safely ride through the stormy fray. 
Or ownerless lie in the crimson clay. 

And northward far, at the selfsame time 
That he dreaming stands in this sunny clime, 
The hands that made me are raised in prayer, 
And her voice ascends through the silent air ; 
And if pureness and goodness have power to charm. 
The head that I cover is safe from harm. 



78 THE COUNTERSIGN. 



THE COUNTERSIGN. 

Alas ! the weary hours pass slow, 

The night is very dark and still, 
And in the marshes far below 

I hear the bearded whippoorwill. 
I scarce can see a yard ahead. 

My ears are strained to catch each sound ; 
I hear the leaves about me shed, 

And the springs bubbling through the ground. 

Along the beaten path I pace. 

Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman's form with bending back. 
I think I see him crouching low, 

I stop and list — I stoop and peer — 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 

With ready piece I wait and watch, 

Until my eyes, familiar grown. 
Detect each harmless earthen notch, 

And turn guerillas into stone. 
And then amid the lonely gloom. 

Beneath the weird old tulip-trees. 
My silent marches I resume, 

And think on other times than these. 

Sweet visions through the silent night ! 
The deep bay-windows fringed with vine, 



THE COUNTERSIGN. 79 

The room within, in softened light, 
The tender, milk-white hand in mine; 

The timid pressure, and the pause 

That ofttimes overcame our speech, — 

That time when by mysterious laws 
We each felt all in all to each. 

And then that bitter, bitter day. 

When came the final hour to part, 
When, clad in soldier's honest gray, 

I pressed her weeping to my heart. 
Too proud of me to bid me stay. 

Too fond of me to let me go, — 
I had to tear myself away. 

And left her stolid in her woe. 

So comes the dream — so fleets the night — 

When distant in the darksome glen. 
Approaching up the sombre height, 

I hear the solid march of men ; 
Till over stubble, over sward, 

And fields where gleams the golden sheaf, 
I see the lantern of the guard 

Advancing with the night relief. 

*' Halt ! who goes there 1 " my challenge cry : 

It rings along the watchful line. 
" Relief ! " I hear a voice reply. 

" Advance, and give the countersign ! " 
With bayonet at the charge, I wait. 

The corporal gives the mystic spell ; 
With arms at port I charge my mate. 

And onward pass, and all is well. 



80 THE ZOUAVES. 

But in the tent that night awake, 

I think, if in the fray I fall, 
Can I the mystic answer make 

When the angelic sentries call 1 
And pray that heaven may so ordain^ 

That when I near the camp divine, 
Whate'er my travail or my pain, 

I yet may have the countersign. 

Camp Cameron, July, 1861. 



THE ZOUAVES. 

To bugle-note and beat of drum 
They come, — the gallant Zouaves come ! 
With gleams of blue and glints of red ; 
With airy, light, elastic tread ; 
With dashing, wild, insouciant air ; 
With figures sinewy, lithe, and spare ; 
With gait replete with fiery grace ; 
With cloudless eye and boyish face, 
And agile play of feet and hands, 
Swift as a Bedouin of the sands. 

They come, -- the gay Zouaves ! 

Lo ! as they file along the green, 

I seem to see the Algerine ! 

The marble piles of building fade, 

And the vast desert, without shade — 

Save where the oasis uplifts 

Its green plumes 'mid the sandy drifts — 



THE ZOUAVES. 81 

Stretches before my dazzled sight 
While, rising o'er a distant height, 
On lean, swift steeds, with slender spears, 
The sallow Arab troop appears, 

To chase the French Zouaves ! 

They slope along the gold-red sand ; 
Their keen eyes sweep the sky and land ; 
The lean steeds snuff the desert wind ; 
The watchful vulture soars behind, 
But nothing moves upon the plain ; 
The keen eyes search the sands in vain. 
Before, behind, and left and right, 
A sandy ripple meets the sight : 
Not even these black-eyed devils know 
That, nigh yon sand-hill, lying low. 

Are crouched the brave Zouaves ! 

Four puffs of smoke that seem to float 
From out the earth, — a crackling note, — 
Four saddles emptied in the troop ! 
Then, wild and shrill the Arab whoop, 
And, spurring with the stirruped feet, 
And dashing of the coursers fleet. 
And then — four puffs of smoke once more, 
Four saddles emptied as before. 
In vain their Allah they invoke, — 
With pertinacious puff's of smoke 
Reply the brave Zouaves ! 

Out of the earth, like Genii, rise 
The red Zouaves with flashing eyes, 
And on the sallow Arab troop 
Like hawks upon a bird they swoop, 
6 



82 THE ZOUAVES. 

With bayonet keen, with murderous gun, 
With curious, planned, erratic run. 
With sudden fall upon the sand. 
With quick deploy, with gun in hand : 
Thus like a meteor of the skies. 
Vivid with red and blue, arise 

The dauntless French Zouaves ! 

Over the tawny sands they fly, 
Now seem they far, now seem they nigh. 
They fire and fall, they fall and fire, 
They scud on limbs of sinewy wire ; 
In each manoeuvre seeming wild. 
Each soldier 's docile as a child ; 
And even the fleetest Arab finds 
A foe that 's fleeter than the winds. 
Thus, outmanoeuvred and outsped. 
He turns and hides his haughty head 
Before the French Zouaves ! 

Your Zouave corps, haughty France ! 
We looked on as a wild romance, 
And many a voice was heard to scoff 
At Algiers and at Malakoff ; 
Nor did we Yankees credit quite 
Their evolutions in the fight. 
But now we 're very sure what they 
Have done can here be done to-day. 
When thus before our sight deploys 
The gallant corps from Illinois, — 
American Zouaves ! 



A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 83 



A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 

January 20, 1862. 

With the head of a drum for my desk, I sit on a southern 
slope, 
While the sunlight streaks the apples that hang in the 
orchard hard by, 
And puzzle my brains over verses and many a marvellous 
trope. 
And vainly seek inspiration from out the sky. 
What can I tell you now that you have not known before 1 
How dearly I love you, Mary, and how hard the parting 
was. 
And how bravely you kissed my lips when we stood at the 
open door. 
And blessed me for going with heart and hand in the 
cause ! 
0, sweet as a lily flushed with the red of the roses near 

When beat by the hot, implacable sun above. 
Was the hue of your angel face, as tear after tear 
Rose to your ivory eyelids and welled with love ! 

War is not quite so hard as you poor townspeople think ; 
We have plenty of food to eat, and a good, warm blanket 
at night. 
And now and then, you know, a quiet, moderate drink ; 
Which does n't hurt us, dearest, and makes things 
right. 
But the greatest blessing of all is the total want of 
care : 



84 A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 

The happy, complete reliance of the carefully-guardianed 
child 
Who has no thought for his dinner, and is given good 
clothes to wear, 
And whose leisure moments are with innocent sports 
beguiled. 
The drill of the soldier is pleasant, if one works with a 
willing heart, 
It is only the worthless fellow that grumbles at double- 
quick; 
I like the ingenious manoeuvres that constitute war an 
art. 
And not even the cleaning of arms can make me sick. 

One of the comrades five that sleep in the tent with me 
Is a handsome, fair-faced boy, with curling, sun-burned 
hair; 
Like me, he has left a sweetheart on the shore of the 
northern sea, 
And, like her I love, he says she also is good and fair. 
So we talk of our girls at night when the other chaps are 
asleep, — 
Talk in the sacred whispers that are low with the choke 
of love, — 
And often when we are silent I think I can hear him weep. 
And murmur her name in accents that croon like the 
nesting dove. 
Then, when we are out on picket, and the nights are calm 
and still. 
When our beats lie close together, we pause and chatter 
the same ; 
And the weary hours pass swiftly, till over the distant hill 
The sun comes up unclouded and fierce with flame. 



A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 85 

The scene that I look on is lovely! The cotton-fields 
smooth and white, 
With the bending negroes shelling the flocculent, burst- 
ing pods, 
And the quiet sentinels slowly pacing the neighboring 
height, 
And now and then hidden by groups of the golden-rods. 
Beautiful are the isles that mottle the slumberous bay ; 

Beautiful are the azure veins of the creeks ; 
Beautiful is the crimson that, far away. 

Burns on the woods like the paint on an Indian's cheeks ! 
Beautiful are the thoughts of the time when — Hist ! 
What sound is that I hear 1 'T is the rifle's continuous 
crack ! 
The long-roll beats to arms ! I must not — cannot be 
missed. 
Dear love, I '11 finish this letter when I come back. 

January 30. 
Don't be startled, my darling, at this handwriting not 
being mine : 
I have been a little ill, and the comrade I spoke of before 
Has kindly offered to take from my loving lips this line ; 
So he holds, as you see, the pen I can hold no more. 
That was a skirmish that came, as I wrote to you, out on 
the hill ; 
We had sharp fighting a while, and I lost my arm. 
There ! don't cry, my darling ! — it will not kill, 

And other poor fellows there met greater harm. 
I have my left arm still to fold you close to my heart, 
All the strength of my lost one will pass into that, I 
know ; 
We soon shall be together, never, never to part. 

And to suffer thus for your country is bliss, not woe ! 



SQ THE PRISONER OF WAR. 



THE PRISONER OF WAR. 

As I lie in my cot at night, and look through the open 
door, 
And watch the silken sky that is woven with threads 
of stars, 
While the white tents sleep on the field like sheep on a 
tawny moor. 
And the hushed streets traverse the camp like dusky 
bars, 
I think of my comrade afar, lying down in a southern 
cell, 
With his life on a paper lot and a loving heart on his 
life. 
And my blood boils up in my veins, and I feel like a fiend 
of hell. 
And I long to vent my hate and my rage in strife. 

I loved him with all my love ; loved him even as well as 
she 
Whose hair he carried away in a locket close to his 
heart ; 
I remember how jealous I felt when under the sycamore- 
tree. 
The night ere the regiment started, I saw them part. 
We had been chums together, — had studied and drank 
in tune ; 
The joy or the grief that struck him rebounded also 
on me, — 



THE PRISONER OF WAR. 87 

As his joy arose mine followed, as waters follow the moon, 
And his tears found their way to my heart as a stream 
to the sea. 

I sing the irregular song of a soul that is bursting with 
pain ! 

There is no metre for sorrow, no rhythm for real despair : 
Go count the feet of the wind as it tramples the naked 
plain, 

Or mimic the silent sadness of snow in the air ! 
I cannot control my heart, nor my innate desire of song, 

I only know that a wild and impetuous grief, 
A fierce, athletic, vengeful feeling of wrong, 

Beats at my brain to-night and must have relief ! 

Spite of all I do to crush it, his sorrowful face wall come, 
Come with its awful framework of interlaced bars and 
stone, 
And out of his patient visage, and lips that are terribly 
dumb, 
I hear the imprisoned whisper, " I am alone ! " 
Solitude thus for him, the life and soul of his throng; 

Whose wit electric wakened the sluggish board ; 
Whose voice, though sweet in converse, was sweeter still 
in song; 
Whose heart like a cornucopia always poured ! 

I mind me when by the Charles River we twain have 
walked. 

Close to the elms so hallowed in unw^ritten song, 
And over the college topics gravely pondered and talked, 

With devious student ideas of right and wrong. 



88 THE PRISONER OF WAR. 

Ah! the river flows there in its usual placid way ; 

The wherries are moored at the boat-house, the elm- 
trees leaf and fall, 
But there is not a voice that now could make the old 
college gay, 
His dusty cap and his gown are worth them all. 

How can he be a prisoner there when I have him here in 
my heart? 
Closer I hold his image than they in the south hold him ; 
It is wrapped and corded with fibres that never, never 
will part, 
And shrined in love and friendship instead of a dun- 
geon grim. 
Up on the fatal bluff where the gallant Baker fell, 

And the foe, insidious, fired from thicket, and copse, 
and tree, — 
There, after fighting long, and bravely, and well. 

The friend of my heart was cut off as a stream by the sea ! 

Lying here in my tent at night, and looking out at the 
door. 
It is I who am the prisoner, not you, beloved friend ! 
It is I who feel the shackles, and the prick of the healing 
sore, 
And all the prison suff'erings without end. 
I see the mocking faces all day through the windows 
stare, — 
I know they are staring at you, but they sneeringly 
lower on me, — 
And I swear an oath as sacred as a soldier ever can swear 

That I will be with you there, or you will be free ! 
ly Camp, December, 1861. 



WINTER. 89 



WINTER. 

Cold wind, white snow, 

Sweeps fast, falls slow, 
And chills the landscape's autumn glow ; 

The ice-bolts freeze 

The naked trees, 
And seal the old year's obsequies. 

A leaden sky- 
Droops heavily, 

As dull and glazed as dead man's eye ; 
The sweeping clouds, 
In cold, cold crowds, 

Enfold the day with ghostly shrouds. 

The woods lie bare, 

And here and there 
The gray moss hangs its mournful hair ; 

The leaves sun-burned. 

By fierce winds spurned. 
Lie mouldering 'mid the soil inurned. 

The.leafless lines 

Of trailing vines 
Stretch, harp-like, through the sounding pines j 

From their festoons 

Float wailing croons. 
As weird and grim as northern runes. 



90 THE SEWING BIRD. 

The day is cold, 

The earth is old, 
And mourns her summer's squandered gold ; 

The birds are dumb, 

The springs are numb. 
For winter in his might has come. 



THE SEWING BIRD. 

I. 

A chimney's shadow, flung by the sun 

As it sank in the west when the day was done. 

Silent and dark as the noiseless bat 

Crept through the room where the work-girl sat, 

Where she sat all day at her poor pine table, 

Working, as long as her hands were able. 

On shirt and collar and chemisette. 

On gowns of silk and on veils of net. 

Till her busy fingers seemed to be 

A skeleton kind of machinery. 

The table was strewn with threads of silk, 

With pearly buttons that shone like milk. 

With gaudy stuffs of a thousand dyes. 

And beads that gleamed in the gloom like eyes ; 

While in the midst of these beautiful things 

Glimmered a Sewing Bird's silver wings. 

But the blankets that lay on her bed were poor, 

And cracks were plain in the crazy door. 

The roof was low and the floor was old. 

And the work-girl shivered as if a-cold ; 



THE SEWING BIRD. 91 

And to judge by the veins in her wan white hand, 
She did not live on the fat of the land. 



II. 

Now when the shadow crept through the room, 

Filling the place with a cheerless gloom, 

So that the weary work was stopped, 

Her thin, mechanical hands she dropped, 

And gazed at the wall so bare and bald, 

Where the shadowy feet of the twilight crawled. 

If at that moment she dreamed at all, 

Or peopled with visions the cold, white wall. 

She thought perhaps of that one bright day, 

In the month of June or the month of May, 

When, rich with the savings of many a week. 

She felt fresh winds blow over her cheek, 

As, with friends as poor and lowly as she. 

She caught her first glimpse of the calm, blue sea, 

Or roamed by copses or sunny lea, 

And learned how bright the world could be. 

But I doubt if the poor are rich in dreams, 

Or build fine castles by golden streams ; 

For want, like frost-bite, kills the grain 

That Fancy sows in the teeming brain, 

And it is not every dreamy stare 

That is filling with fairies the twilight air. 

III. 

Yet still she sat, and, it may be, dreamed — 
I hope so — until there suddenly seemed 
To sweep through the room a rustle of wings. 
With a tinkling as if of silver rings, 



92 THE SEWING BIRD. 

And then a low and a soaring song, 

That every instant grew more strong. 

She looked at wall and window and floor, 

She peered through the gloom at the crazy door ; 

Nothing was visible anywhere, 

Yet still the song was thrilling the air ; 

Then she turned her eyes to the table of pine, 

And saw something shiver and dimly shine ; 

And lo ! from the midst of the shreds of silk. 

And the pearly buttons that shone like milk, 

There came the song of the silver rings, 

And the gleam and flutter of shining wings ; 

As up from the table the Sewing Bird sprang. 

While singing it soared, and soaring it sang : — 

" Follow me up and follow me down. 

Hither and thither^ through all the town ; 

For there are lessons that must he taught, 

And there are changes that must he wrought, 

And there are wrongs that the world shall Tcnow, — 

So follow, follow, where'er I go 1 " 



IV. 

Then the work-girl rose from her rickety chair. 
And opened the door that led on the stair, 
While swift overhead the Sewing Bird flew, 
And carolled and fluttered as if it knew 
That it led her spirit in threads as strong 
As the chains of love or the poet's song ; 
While ever there rang through the corridor hollow 
The silvery strain of " Follow / Follow / " 



THE SEWING BIRD. 93 



V. 



So down the avenue of Broadway, 

Where the lamp-light shone like an amber day, 

The Sewing Bird led the maiden along, 

To the airy tune of its fairy song. 

They came to a palace ornate and tall, 

With marble pillars and marble wall, 

And windows Of glass so large and clear 

That the panes seemed lucid as atmosphere. 

The work-girl stopped as the crowd went by, 

And gazed through the windows with wistful eye ; 

For the walls were splendid with paint and gold, 

The couches were fit for the Sybarites old. 

And the floor was soft with the Brussels woof, 

And flowery frescos ran over the roof. 

While a delicate radiance from globes of glass 

Fell soft as sunlight upon the grass. 



VI. 

Who are the princes — the work-girl thought - 
That dwell in this palace by Genii wrought ] 
She looked, and beheld some dozen or ten 
Young and excessively nice young men ; 
Their faces were beardless, rosy, and fair, 
An astonishing curl was in their hair, 
Their feet were squeezed into shiny boots. 
Their nails were pink, and white at the roots. 
Their hands were as taper, their limbs as fine. 
As an Arab maiden's in Palestine ; 
Their waistcoats were miracles to behold, 
Ribbed with velvet and flecked with gold ; 



94 THE SEWING BIRD. 

And perfect rivers of watch-chain ran 

Over the breast of each nice young man. 

But you could not see in a single face 

Of courage or manhood the faintest trace ; 

Through every feature the sentiment ran, 

" If you please, I would rather not be a man ! " 

One of them sat in an easy chair. 

With smirking, impudent, indolent air, 

Blandly explaining, with smile serene, 

The merits of Cantator's sewing-machine ; 

While others lounged through the gorgeous room. 

Diffusing the odors of Lubin's perfume, 

Or gossiping over the last new play, 

Or their " spree " last week — and *' Was n't it gay 1 " 

But the crowd at the windows thought them sublime 

And wished that they had such an easy time. 

As the work-girl gazed at this splendid array 

Of Cantator's youths on show in Broadway, 

She gathered her shawl round her wasted form. 

While her breath congealed on the window-panes warm. 

And sighed, " Ah me ! ah me ! ah me ! 

This is the place where I should be ! '* 



VII. 

Then the Sewing Bird swelled his silvery throat. 
And trilled through the air his crystalline note : - 
'* Folloiv me up and follow me dowii^ 
Hither and thither, through all the town ; 
For there are still more splendid marts, 
That never will warm the worh-girW hearts, 
And the lesson is still to he fully learned 
How woman s 2^ittance by man is earned ! " 



THE SEWING BIRD. 95 



vm. 



'T was a vast, majestic dry-goods store, 

Into whose portals from every shore 

Came cashmeres, satins, and silks, and shawls, 

To flood the counters and fill the halls : 

There Paris sent its delicate gloves, 

With mantles, " Such beauties ! " and bonnets, " Such 

loves!" 
And China yielded from primitive looms 
Its silks shot over with changeable blooms. 
While India's golden tissues blent 
With camel' s-hair from the Syrian's tent. 
At each counter was something, — not man, not boy, — 
A sort of effeminate hobbledehoy, 
And over the laces it simpered and smiled. 
And blandly each feminine idiot beguiled 
With " Charmingest fashion ! " and " Is n't it sweet 1 " 
" Just allow me to show you — remarkably neat ! " 
"No pattern is. like it — on honor — in town, 
Just becomes your complexion, — shall I put it down 1 " 
And its frippery fingers went dabbling through tapes, 
And its glozing discourse was of trimmings and capes, 
And to see its expressionless eyes you 'd have thought 
That its soul, like its tapes, had been long ago bought. 
As the work-girl gazed on this muscleless crew. 
Who were doing the things she was suited to do, 
She sighed, " Ah me ! ah me ! ah me ! 
This is the place where I should be 1 " 

IX. 

Then the Sewing Bird swelled his silvery throat, 
And uttered a piercing, reverberant note : — 



96 THE SEWING BIRD. 

" Follow me here, and follow me there, 
Out through the free-blowing mou7itain air, 
Up to the heart of the healthy hill, 
Deep in the heart of the backwoods still ; 
For the lesson still remains for you — 
To show you the labor that men should do.''* 



X. 

Up in a wild Californian hill, 

Where the torrents swept with a mighty will, 

And the grandeur of nature filled the air, 

And the cliffs were lofty, rugged, and bare. 

Some thousands of lusty fellows she saw 

Obeying the first great natural law. 

From the mountain's side they had scooped the earth 

Down to the veins where the gold had birth. 

And the mighty pits they had girdled about 

AYith ramparts massive, and wide, and stout ; 

And they curbed the torrents, and swept them round 

Wheresoever they willed, through virgin ground. 

They rocked huge cradles the livelong day. 

And shovelled the heavy, tenacious clay, 

And grasped the nugget of gleaming ore. 

The sinew of commerce on every shore. 

Their beards were rough and their eyes were bright, 

For their labor was healthy, their hearts were light ; 

And the kings and princes of distant lands 

Blessed the work of their stalwart hands. 



Then high o'er the shovel's and pickaxe's clang 
Loudly the song of the Sewing Bird rang : — 



THE SEWING BIRD. 97 

" See, see, see, see I 

This is the place wliere men should he ! " 

And he soared once more through the boundless air, 

While the work-girl followed him, wondering where. 

XI. 

She saw a region of mighty woods 
Stretching away for millions of roods ; 
The odorous cedar and pine-tree tall, 
And the live oak, the grandest among them all, 
And the solemn hemlock, massive and grim. 
Claiming broad space for each mighty limb. 
Then she heard the clang of the woodman's axe 
Booming along through the lumber-tracks. 
And she heard the crack of the yielding trunk, 
As deeper and deeper the keen axe sunk, 
And the swishing fall — the sonorous thrill — 
And the following stillness, more than still. 
Then, moving among the avenues dim, 
She saw the lumbermen, giant of limb ; 
The frankness of heaven was in each face. 
And their forms were grand with untutored grace ; 
Their laugh was hearty, their blow was strong, 
And sweet as the wood-notes their working song, 
As they hewed the limbs from the giant tree, 
And stripped off his leafy mj^stery ; 
They breathed the air with elastic lungs. 
They trolled their ditties with mirthful tongues, 
And to see it would do a citizen good. 
With what unction they relished their homely food ; 
For their hunger was keen as their trenchant axe. 
And their jokes as broad as their brawny backs. 

7 



98 THE SEWING BIKD. 

Then the Sewing Bird sang, again and again, 

As he soared o'er the sonorous woods of Maine, 

" See, see, see, see ! 

This is the place where men should he ! " 

And he floated once more through the azure air, 

And the work-girl followed him, wondering where. 

XII. 

Vast plateaus of loamy land she saw, 

Quickening with life in the early thaw. 

The pulse of the waking spring she heard. 

And the broken trills of the gladdened bird. 

And the teams afield with their heavy plod 

As they dragged the share through the juicy sod. 

Through the crisp, clear air she heard the voice 

Of sturdy ploughmen and farmer-boys. 

And a busy din from the farm-yards rang. 

And she heard the spades in the furrows clang. 

Then a sudden change swept over the scene, 

As the summer sun with a light serene 

Smiled upon cottage and field and fold. 

And reddened the harvests of waving gold. 

Then down through the golden sea there came 

The mowers swarthy and stout of frame ; 

And the cradle-scythe in their hands they swung 

Till the hiss of the blade through the .grain-fields rung, 

As they cut their way with a mighty motion. 

Like sharp-prowed ships in a yellow ocean. 

Then the Sewing Bird sang like a mellow horn, 

As it soared o'er Ohio's land of corn, 

" See, see, see, see ! 

This is the place where men should he ! " 



A SUMMER IDYL. 99 

XIII. 
The work-girl sat in her attic room, 
Cold and silent, and wrapped in gloom ; 
There was no longer a glimmer of day, 
And the Sewing Bird still on the table lay. 
The voice was silent that once had sung, 
And silent forever the silver tongue ; 
But she pondered long on the strange decree 
That she, wherever she turned, must see 
Men in the places where women should be ! 



A SUMMER IDYL. 

It was a moonlit summer night ; 

The heavens were drenched with silver rain, 
And frowning rose Katahdin's height 

Above the murmuring woods of Maine. 

Close by our resting-place a stream 
That seemed to long to kiss our feet 

Sang, as it went, some fairy theme, — 
Musical, low, and incomplete. 

The world was hushed, but nothing slept. 

The cricket shrilled amid the sheaves, 
And through the mighty woods there crept 

The mystic utterances of leaves. 



100 A SUMMER IDYL. 

Never had moonbeams shone so bright, 
Never had earth seemed half so fair ; 

I loved the stream, the trees, the night. 
The wondrous azure of the air. 

And through my very finger-tips 
I felt the full enjoyment thrill ; 

I wished I could with loving lips 

Kiss the sweet moon that crowned the hill 1 

Ah, why 1 Another moon I knew, 

Less luminous, but all as fair. 
Above my shoulder shining, through 

A wondrous haze of golden hair ; — 

Shining as once Diana shone 

Upon the boy, in Ida's grove ; 
Her stooping face, no longer wan. 

Flushed in the harvest-time of love. 

So not for me that orb serene, 

That grandly crowned the mountain-crest ;. 
And, turning to my proper queen, 

I drew her down upon my breast. 

* Amy,' said I, ' shine on me 

Through all my life as that moon shines. 
Shedding o'er each asperity 

The light that softens and refines ; — 

* So mildly, that my eyes can rest 

Untiring on your gentle face, 
Yet not so distant but my breast 
May be your happy resting-place. 



A SUMMER IDYL. 101 

' Bestow that sweet, attractive spell 

That draws the sea toward the skies, 
And let my tide of being swell 

Beneath the lustre of your eyes. 

* And if some sullen cloud should sail 

'Twixt you and me in social space, 
Why, when 't is past I will inhale 

A sweeter influence from your face. 

' Be changeful, too, like that sweet moon 1 

Change is the law of earthly life, 
And nature hums the varying tune 

Of weal and woe, of peace and strife.' 

She ruffled all her yellow hair, 

But, answering not a single word, 
Veiled in the dusky twilight air, 

She nestled to me like a bird. 

And in the vague electric spark, 

Felt only when cheek touches cheek, 
I knew through all the shadows dark 

The promise that she did not speak. 

blessed moonlit summer night ! 

When earth seemed drenched with silver rain, 
And frowning rose Katahdin's height 

Above the murmuring woods of Maine. 



102 BY THE PASSAIC. 



BY THE PASSAIC. 

Where the river seeks the cover 

Of the trees whose boughs hang over, 

And the slopes are green with clover, 

In the quiet month of May ; 
Where the eddies meet and mingle. 
Babbling o'er the stony shingle, 
There I angle, 
There I dangle. 
All the day. 

0, 't is sweet to feel the plastic 
Rod, with top and butt elastic. 
Shoot the line in coils fantastic, 
Till, like thistle-down, the fly 
Lightly drops upon the water. 
Thirsting for the finny slaughter, 
As I angle. 
And I dangle. 
Mute and sly. 

Then I gently shake the tackle. 
Till the barbed and fatal hackle 
In its tempered jaws shall shackle 
That old trout, so wary grown. 
Now I strike him ! joy ecstatic ! 
Scouring runs ! leaps acrobatic ! 
So I angle. 
So I dangle, 
All alone. 



BY THE PASSAIC. 103 

Then when grows the sun too fervent, 
And the lurking trouts, observant, 
Say to me, ' Your humble servant ! 

Now we see your treacherous hook ! ' 
Maud, as if by hazard wholly, 
Saunters down the pathway slowly, 
While I angle, 
There to dangle 
With her hook. 

Then somehow the rod reposes. 
And the book no page uncloses ; 
But I read the leaves of roses 

That unfold upon her cheek ; 
And her small hand, white and tender. 
Rests in mine. Ah ! what can send her 
Thus to dangle 
While I angle 1 
Cupid, speak ! 



104 THE THREE GANNETS. 



THE THKEE GANNETS. 



On a wrinkled rock, in a distant sea, 

Three white gannets sat in the sun ; 
They shook the brine from their feathers so fine, 

And lazily, one by one. 
They sunnily slept — while the tempest crept. 

II. 

In a painted boat, on a distant sea, 

Three fowlers sailed merrily on, 
And each took aim, as he came near the game, 

And the gannets fell, one by one, 
And fluttered and died — while the tempest sighed. 

III. 

Then a cloud came over the distant sea, 

A darkness came over the sun. 
And a storm-wind smote on the painted boat, 

And the fowlers sank, one by one, 
Down, down with their craft — while the tempest laughed. 



THE SEA. 105 



THE SEA. 



Ebb and flow ! ebb and flow ! 
By basalt crags, through caverns low, 
Through rifted rocks, o'er pebbly strand, 
On windy beaches of naked sand ! 

To and fro ! to and fro ! 

Chanting ever and chanting slow. 

Thy harp is swept with liquid hands, 

And thy voice is breathing of distant lands ! 

Sweet and low ! sweet and low ! 

Those golden echoes I surely know. 

Thy lips are rich with the lazy south. 

And the tuneful icebergs have touched thy mouth. 

Come and go ! come and go ! 

The sun may shine and the winds may blow, 

But thou wilt forever sing, sea ! 

And I never, ah ! never, shall sing like thee ! 

December, 1854. 



106 WILLY AND I. 



WILLY AND I. 

We grew together in wind and rain, 
We shared the pleasure, we shared the pain ; 
I would have died for him, and he, 
I thought, would have done the same for me, — 
Willy and I. 

* 

Summer and winter found us together. 
Through snow and storm and shiny weather ; 
Together we hid in the scented hay. 
Or plucked the blooms of our English May, — 
Willy and I. 

I called him husband, he called me wife, 
We builded the dream of a perfect life : 
He was to conquer some noble state. 
And I was to love him through every fate, — 
Willy and I. 

0, he was so fair, with his golden hair. 
And his breath was sweet as our homestead air ! 
My cheeks were red, — and the neighbors said, 
A thousand pities we were not wed, — 
Willy and I. 

Now I stand alone in the wind and rain, 
With none of the pleasure and all the pain ; 
I am a beggar, and Willy is dead, 
And the blood of another is on his head, — 
WiUy and L 



WHEN I CAME BACK FEOM SEA. 107 



THE CHALLENGE. 

A WARRIOR hung his phimed helm 
On the rugged trunk of an aged elm ; 

* Where is the knight so bold,' he cried, 

* That dares my haughty crest deride 1 ' 

The wind came by with a sullen howl, 

And dashed the helm on the pathway foul, 

And shook in scorn each sturdy limb, — 

For where was the knight that could fight with him 1 



WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 

When we set sail to chase the whale 

From old Nantucket Bay, 
0, a lighter, merrier heart than mine 

Never yet sailed away ! 
While some were sad, and none was glad, 

I was singing with glee ; 
For I was to marry sweet Maggie Gray 

When I came back from sea. 

Her hair was brown as the kelp that drifts 
Where sea-currents come and go ; 

Like gentians peeping through snowy rifts, 
Her blue eyes shone in snow. 



108 WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 

And further down the sea-pink grew. 

Healthy, hardy, and free ; 
And all these treasures would be mine 

When I came back from sea. 



Wherever I went in the far, far south, 

In strait or in calm lagoon, 
My heart, like the cheerful heart it was, 

Kept singing a merry tune. 
It shortened the watch of the weary nights, 

It lightened my- work for me ; 
For it sang, ' You '11 marry sweet Maggie Gray 

When you come back from sea.' 

My comrades too, though rude and rough, 

Ever ready to give and take. 
Were gentle, — for all of them knew my bird, 

And were kind to me for her sake ; 
And none ever dared, in our fo'castle games, 

To make ribald jests to me ; 
For I was to marry sweet Maggie Gray 

When I came back from sea. 

For three long years we sailed and whaled, 

Until w^e had filled our hold ; 
Then homeward sped, while every head 

Was running on wages and gold. 
But I did not care what would be my share, 

However large it might be ; 
My only thought was of Maggie Gray, 

As I came back from sea. 



WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 109 

At last one day we saw the bay 

And the old Nantucket shore ; 
I landed and ran like an Indian man 

To Maggie's cottage door. 
But the door was barred, and there was not a soul 

To give, word or welcome to me ; 
For Maggie Gray had gone away, 

And I — had come back from sea ! 



I ran like mad through the little town, 

And questioned all I met ; 
But I only got a shake of the head, 

Or a look of sad regret ; 
Until old Ben — a rough man too — 

Came kindly up to me, 
Saying, * Lad, 't were better a thousand times 

You 'd never come back from sea.' 



Then I heard it all, — how a gay gallant 

Had come from Boston down, 
And robbed the nest of my little pet bird. 

And carried her off to town ; 
While I was left with a broken heart, 

Aad nothing to welcome me. 
But a tale of shame and a ruined name, 

When I came back from sea. 



110 . AN OLD STORY. 



AN OLD STORY. 



The snow falls fast in the silent street, 
And the wind is laden with cutting sleet, 
And there is a pitiless glare in the sky, 
As a haggard woman goes wandering by. 



The rags that wrap her wasted form 
Are frozen stiff in the perishing storm. 
And she is so cold that the snow-flakes rest 
Unmelted upon her marble breast. 



Ah ! who could believe that those rayless eyes 
Were once as sunny as April skies, %^ 



And the flowers she plucked in the early spring 
Loved to be touched by so pure a thing 1 



*T is past, — and the fierce wind, shrieking by, 
Drowns the faint gasp of her parting sigh ; 
And lifeless she falls at the outer gate 
Of him who has left her desolate ! 



Silently falls the snow on her face, 

Clothing her form in its stainless grace ; 

As though God, in his mercy, had willed that she 

Should die in a garment of purity. 






HELEN LEE. Ill 



HELEN LEE. 



Rosy-cheeked, dark-haired October 

Through the land was passing gayly, 

Crowned with maize-leaves, and behind him 
Followed Plenty with her horn, 

Calling in the later harvests, 

Flattering the chuckling farmer. 

Pelting him with ruddy apples, 

And with shocks of yellow corn. 



He it was whose royal pleasure 
Clothed the woods in gold and purple ; 
He it was whose fickle pleasure 

Clothed them, stripped, and left them bare ; 
Then, as if in late contrition, 
Summoned back the truant summer, 
Wove of smoke an azure mantle 

For the shivering earth to wear. 



Poor amends the Indian summer 
Made, with all its pitying sunshine, 
For the loss of leafy glory, 

Painted flower, and singing bird ; 
So from rocks, and trees, and hedges, 
From the fallen leaves and grasses. 
Came a sound of mourning, as the 

Melancholy breezes stirred. 



112 HELEN LEE. 

Yet the train of hale October 

Rang with laughter, song, and dancing, 

As the young men and the maidens 

Sang and danced the harvest-home ; 
As from many a low' -roofed farmhouse 
Flashed the lights of merry-making, 
Rose the note of ready-making 

For the merriment to come. 



Pleasant was the starry evening, 
Pleasant, though the air was chilly, 
When the youths and maidens gathered 

At the call of David Lee, — 
David Lee, the hearty farmer, 
Who had wrestled with his acres, 
And in barn, and stack, and cellar 

Stored the spoils of victory. 

As the beaks of captured vessels, 
Gilded ensigns, suits of armor. 
Shone as trophies on the temples 

Of the gods, in classic days, 
So around the farmer's kitchen 
Hung long rows of golden melons ; 
So along the farmer's rafters 

Hung festoons of perfect maize. 

Not a child had Farmer David, — 
He had known the loss of children, 
Known a parent's voiceless anguish, 

When the rose forsakes the cheek, - 



HELEN LEE. 113 



"When the hand grows thin and thinner, 
And the pulses fainter, feebler, — 
When the eyes are sunk and leaden, 
And the tongue forgets to speak. 



One bright spring a pair of rosebuds, 
Growing in the father's garden, 
Filled his hope with crimson promise, 

They were gone in early June. 
Then there came a tiny daughter, 
Learned to kiss and call him ' Father,' 
Vanished like an April snow-flake, — 

And the mother followed soon. 



Then his face grew dark and stony. 
Then his soul shrunk up in sorrow. 
As a flower shuts at nightfall 

From the dampness and the cold ; 
Till a sister, dying, left him 
Her one child, a blue-eyed darling, 
Whose dear love and tender graces 

Kept his heart from growing old. 

Maidenhood stole softly on her, 
Like the changing of the seasons, 
Till the neighbors came to think her 

Beautiful as one could be ; 
And the young men, when they met her, 
Blushed, they knew not why, and stammered, 
And would prize a kingdom cheaper 

Than a smile of Helen Lee. 
8 



114 HELEN LEE. 

In the barn the youths and maidens 
Stripped the corn of husk and tassel, 
Warmed the chillness of October 

With the hfe of spring and May ; 
While through every chink the lanterns, 
And sonorous gusts of laughter, 
Made assault on night and silence 

With the counterfeit of day. 



Songs were sung, — sweet English ballads, 
Which their fathers and their mothers 
Sang together by the rivers 

Of the dear old fatherland ; 
Tales were told, — quaint English stories, 
Tales of humor and of pathos ; 
Tales of love, and home, and fireside, 

That a child could understand. 



Most they called on Richard Miller, 

Prince among the story-tellers ; 

Young and graceful, strong and handsome, 

Rich in all that blesses life ; 
For his stories ended happy, — 
Ended always with a marriage ; 
Every youth became a husband, 

Every maid became a wife. 



So he told how Harry Marline 
Roved about the world a long time, 
Then returned to find the maiden 

Whom he loved had proven true. 



HELEN LEE. 115 



How he brought home gold and silver, 
How they made a famous wedding ; 
And he closed by saying slyly, 
* An example, girls, for you ! ' 

Then said Helen, smiling archly, 
* I will never have a husband ! ' 
And the ear which she was husking 

Fell into the basket, red ; 
Whereupon they clapped and shouted, 
For a red ear means a lover. 
And the maiden, vexed and blushing. 

In the shadow hid her head. 



Soon the jest was quite forgotten, 
And her face again she lifted 
To behold his eyes upon her 

With a look so strange and new, 
That, when games and dancing followed. 
And she chanced to touch his fingers, 
In her hand she felt a tremor. 

On her cheek a warmer hue. 



When the candles burning dimly. 
Flaring, smoking in the socket, 
Sent the party homeward, shouting. 

Through the starlight crisp and clear, 
Richard lingered in the doorway. 
Took the bashful hand of Helen, 
Whispered softly in the darkness 

Pleasant words for maid to hear. 



116 HELEN LEE. 

When she sought her little chamber, 
Long she could not sleep for thinking 
Of his looks, his voice, and language. 

For the youth had turned her head ; . 
In her dreams she murmured, ' Richard,' 
When she woke her thought was, ' Richard,' 
When she bade * Good morning, father ! ' 

* Richard,' she had almost said. 



the pleasant, pleasant autumn ! 

How it seemed like spring-time to them ! 

How the flowers budded, blossomed, 

In their hearts afresh each day! 
the walks they had together, 
From the singing-schools and parties. 
In the white and frosty moonlight. 

In the starlight cold and gray ! 

the happy winter evenings ! 
Long, indeed, to want and sickness, 
Short enough to youth and maiden 

By the hearth of David Lee ; 
Looking in each other's faces, 
Listening to each other's voices, 
Blending with the golden present 

Golden days that were to be. 



When the voice of spring was calling 
To the flowers in field and forest, 
' It is time to waken, children ! ' 

And the flowers obeyed the call ; 



HELEN LEE. 117 



When the cattle on the hillside, 
And the fishes in the river, 
Felt anew the joy of living, 
Was a weddinof festival. 



Violets and honeysuckles 

Bloomed on window-sill and mantel, 

On the old clock's oaken turret, 

In the young bride's flaxen hair ; 
And the sweet-brier filled the morning 
With its eloquence of odor ; — 
* Life is cold, but love can warm it ; 

0, be faithful, happy pair ! ' 

Solemnly the village pastor 
Said the simple marriage-service ; 
Then came one, with roguish twinkle, 

Asking, ' had another heard 
Of a certain little maiden 
Who would never have a husband 1 ' 
And the young bride turned to Richard, 

Smiled, but answered not a word. 



And as Farmer Lee looked on them, 
Down his cheek the tears were falling, 
But a light shone from his features 

On the circle gathered round. 
And he leaned on Richard's shoulder, 
Saying, ' Friends, be happy with me, 
For I have not lost a daughter. 

But a worthy son have found ! ' 



118 STRAWBERRIES. 



STRAWBERRIES. 



The garden was filled with odors 

From jasmine and heliotrope, 
And the tender moss-rose, muffled 

In its beautiful velvet cope ; 
White currants, like beads of amber, 

Strung upon sea-green silk. 
Mingled their spicy clusters 

With snowberries white as milk. 

II. 
I watched her plucking the strawberries, 

And bending over the bank, 
Where the luscious rubies lay hiding, 

As if from her search they shrank ; . 
And when she bit them, she opened 

Lips ripe and red as they, — 
Ah ! if I had been the strawberries, 

I would not have hidden away. 

III. 
* Are you not fond of strawberries] 

Why don't you pluck and eat 1 
See, here is a noble fellow. 

Juicy, and red, and sweet. 
Don't stand there looking so solemn, 

As if you thought 't was a sin 
To eat of such delicate morsels. 

But open your mouth and begin.' 



BATTLEDORES. 119 

IV. 

* Ah ! Imogen, dear,' I answered, 

' I care for no fruit but one : 
'T is as ripe and red as this berry. 

And as full of the blood of the sun. 
But you selfishly hold it from me, 

Nor offer me even a part.' 

* What is this fruit 1 ' she questioned. 

* This fruit,' I said, ' is your heart ! ' 



The strawberry dropped from her fingers, 

And she stretched out her little hand, 
And I knew that, instead of the fruit, it held 

The sweetest heart in the land. 
So we left the strawberries lying 

In their shadowy leaves that day. 
And silently walked in the garden, 

While the long hours stole away. 



BATTLEDORES. 



May is blond and Madge is brown, 
And 'twixt the two I fly ; 

One lives in country, one in town, 
But yet for both I sigh. 



120 BATTLEDORES. 

Madge says that I 'm in love with May, 
And pouts a sweet disdain, 

Yet all the while her brown eyes say, 
* I fear no rival's reign.' 



II. 

May is calm, and like the moon 

That sails the summer sky. 
Her voice is sweeter than the tune 

That scented night-winds sigh ; 
And underneath her quiet glance 

All happily I lie, 
And live a dreamy, sweet romance 

When her fair form is nigh. 

III. 

Thus 'twixt the two my heart is thrown, 

And shuttle-like I fly ; 
For blue-eyed May is all my own, 

When brown Madge is not by. 
But loving each, and loving both, 

I know not how to lie. 
So here 's to both, however loth, 

Good-by, good-by, good-by ! 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 121 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



THE SCHOOL. 

Miss Mart Degai, at the age of sixteen, 
Was as pretty a maiden as ever was seen. 

Her eyes were deep blue, — 

Not that meaningless hue 
That one sees on old china, and sometimes on new ; 

Which really implies 

Hers were not saucer eyes, 
Though the people declared — and I 'm not sure which 

worser is — 
That, though not saucer eyes, they had worked many 

sorceries. 
Her hair was that shade of which poets are fond, 
A compromise lustrous 'twixt chestnut and blond. 

Her figure was fragile. 

Yet springy and agile ; 
While her clear, pallid skin, so essentially Frenchy, 

Neither brunette nor fair. 

Just gave her the air 
Of a sort of Fifth Avenue Beatrix Cenci. 

With a spick and span new, superfine education, 
Befitting a maid of such fortunate station. 
Miss Mary Degai had just made her debut, 

From the very select, 

Genteel, circumspect 
Establishment kept by — it cannot be wrong 
Just to mention the name — by one Madame Cancan. 



122 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



This Madame Cancan was a perfect Parisian, 
Her morals infernal, her manners eljsian. 



^"■"kz. 




She was slender and graceful, and rouged with much art, 
A mistress of dumb show, from ogle to start. 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 123 

Her voice was delightful, her teeth not her owu, — 
And a cane-bottomed chair when she sat seemed a throne. 
In short, this dear, elegant Madame Cancan 
Was like a French dinner at some restaurant, — 
That is, she completely was made a la carte. 
And I think she 'd a truffle instead of a heart. 
But then what good rearing she gave to her pupils ! 
They dressed like those elegant ladies at Goupil's 
One sees in the prints just imported from France ; 
With what marvellous grace did they join in the dance ! 
No Puritan modesty marred their tournure, — 
Being modest is nearly as bad as being poor, — 
No shudder attacked them when man laid his hand on 
Their waists in the redowa's graceful abandon, 
As they swung in that waltz to voluptuous music. 
Ah ! did we but see 
Our sisters so free, 
I warrant the sight would make both me and you sick ! 
Thus no trouble was spared through those young misses' 

lives 
To make them good partners, and ' — very bad wives. 
Receptions were given each week on a Wednesday, — 
Which day by the school was entitled " the men's day," 
Because on such date young New York was allowed 
To visit en masse that ingenuous crowd. 
When they talked threadbare nothings and flat shilly- 
shally, 
Of Gottschalk's mustache, or Signora Vestvali, 
Followed up by the thriUmgest questions and answers. 
Such as — which they liked best, the schottische or the 

lancers % 
No flirting, of course, was permitted. dear ! 
If Madame Cancan such a word were to hear, 



124 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



She would look a whole beltful of dagger-blades at you, 
And faint in the style of some favorite statue. 




The men were invited alone to impart 

To her young protegees that most difficult art 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 125 

Of conversing with ease ; and if ease was the aim 
That Madame had in view she was not much to blame, 
For I vow she succeeded so well with her shes, 
That her school might take rank as a chapel of ease ! 
Au reste, Madame's pension was quite in the fashion : 
None better knew how to put shawl or pin sash on 
Than did her young ladies ; 't was good as a play- 
To watch the well-bred and impertinent way 
They could enter a room in. Their gait in the street 
Was five-barred, — one might say, — 't was so high and 

complete. * 

Then their boots were so small, and their stockings so neat, — 
Alas ! that such dainty and elegant feet 

Should be trained a la mode 
In that vicious gymnasium, the modern girls' school, 

To trip dowm the road 

That, while easy and broad, 
Conducts to a place that 's more spacious than cool ! 

Miss Mary Degai 

Was the pet protegee 
Of dear Madame Cancan. She was excellent pay, 
In her own right an heiress, — a plum at the least, — 
A plantation down south and a coal-mine down east, — 
I can't state the sum of her fortune in figures, 
But I know she had plenty of dollars and niggers. 

She was petted and feted, 

And splendidly treated. 
Lay abed when she chose, and her school-teachers cheated ; 
Smuggled candy in school ; smoked cigars, and — 0, fie! — 
Read a great many very queer books on the sly. 
She 'd a love affair, too, — quite a sweet episode, — 
With a wonderful foreign young Count, who abode 



126 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



Ill the opposite dwelling, — a Count Cherami, 
A charming young beau, 




Who was tres comme il faut. 
And who was with our boarding-school Miss Uen pris. . 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 127 

So he shot letters on to the roof with an arrow, 
And thence they were picked by a provident sparrow, 
An amiable housemaid, who thought that the course 

Of true love should run smooth, 

And had pity on youth, — 
So, sooner than leave the fond pair no resource, 
Disinterestedly brought all the letters to Mary, 
At a dollar apiece, — the beneficent fairy ! 



THE BALL. 

'T was the height of the season, the spring-time of Brown, 

Who sowed invitations all over the town. 

Soirees musicale, tableaux, matinees, 

Turned days into nights, and the nights into days ; 

And women w^ent mad upon feathers and flounces, 

And scruples gave way to auriferous ounces. 

Amanda came over her father with new arts 

To grant her a credit at amiable Stewart's, 

And sulked till he 'd promised that, if she 'd not miff any, 

He 'd give her the bracelet she wanted from Tiffany. 

As a matter of course. 

Young New York was in force. 

Tight boots and loose coats, 

Stift', dog-collared throats ; 

Champagne under chair. 

Drunk with dare-devil air. 

Mr. Brown's light brigade 

Was in splendor arrayed. 

0, that season, I w^ot. 

Will be never forgot ! 
For 't was then that young Beelzebub proved all his vigor 
Of mind by inventing a wonderful figure, 



128 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



To be danced every night by " his set " in that milHon 
Of marvellous mazes, — the German cotillon. 



ir-^'^'^^^^ 




'T was the height of the winter. The poor summer flowers 
Were forced to come out at unreasonable hours. 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



129 



Camellias, amazed at the frost and the snow, 

Without asking their leaves, were requested to blow ; 

And gardeners, relentless, awaked the moss-roses 

From slumbers hybernant to tickle the noses 

Of maidens just budding, like them, out of season ; 

And pale, purple violets, sick and etiolate. 

Tried in vain to preserve their wan blossoms inviolate. 




In short, 't was the time of the ball-giving season, 
The reign of low dresses, ice-creams, and unreason, 
And the greatest event of the night — not the day, — 
Though the latter 's the phrase the most proper to say. 
Was the hal de debut of Miss Mary Degai. 



What a ball that one was ! All the city was there. 
Brown reigned like a king on the white marble stair. 
And whistled — perhaps 't was to drive away care — 
Loud, shrilly, and long, to each carriage and pair 

9 



130 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



As it landed its burden of feminine fair. 
And Kammerer, hid in a nice little lair 
Of thick-tufted laurels, played many an air, 













.S^ 







Soft waltz, wild mazourka, quick polka, slow Schottische,^^ 
With all those quadrilles called by Jullien " the Scottish. 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 131 

Globed lamps shed soft light over shoulders of satin, 
While men, hat in hand, — fashion ct la Manhattan, — 
Talked in tones that were muffled in sweet modulation 
To all those fair flowers of a fairer creation, 
About — whether the play or the ballet were properer 1 
Or — they did not observe them last night at the opera. 

the nooks and the corners — the secret expansions — 
That are found in the depths of Fifth Avenue mansions ! 
The deeply-bayed windows, screened off by camellias, 
Just made for the loves of the Toms and Amelias ; 
The dim little boudoir 
Where nestles — proh pudor ! — 
That pair of young doves, in the deep shadow cooing, — 
W^hich means, in plain English, legitimate wooing. 
The ancients, I know, or I 've got the idea, 
Placed love in some spot that they called Cytherea, — 
A commonplace garden, with nothing but sparrows 
To shoot at, — and that would be wasting love's arrows, — 
And where, if he sat on the grass with his Psyche, 
He 'd probably start before long with, " 0, Criky ! 
There 's a bug on my — tunic !" But that was all gam- 
mon. 
The true home of love is the palace of mammon. 
Where gardens grow up, under glass, nice and neat, 
And lovers may wander, 
And ever grow fonder. 
Without even once getting wet on their feet ! 

In one of those bowers, remote and secluded, 
With pale-blossomed roses ingeniously wooded, 
Through whose light-scented leaves a faint music stole in, — 
Like perfume made audible, — here might be seen 



132 



THE FINISHIKG SCHOOL. 



'::SX-'-'^'^--'^'""- 




zz':r^"'i^''-'"^'^^ 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 133 

He had beautiful feet, and his smile was serene ; 
Though his hair might have needed a little wahpene, 
Still what he had left was of glossiest sheen ; 
His age — let me see — well, his age might have been 
Between thirty and forty, — a dangerous age, — 
All the passions of youth, and the wit of the sage. 
The Count was an exile, — a matter of course, — 
A foreigner here has no other resource ; 
The Count was an exile for reasons political^ 
Though some said — but people are really so critical — 
That he was but a croupier who 'd made a good swoop, 
And had tried change of air for his fit of the croupe. 
And 't was true that his eyes had a villanous flash, — 
But then he had got such a lovely mustache, 
And his English was broken to exquisite smash ! 

There he sat tete-a-tete with Miss Mary Degai, 

Talking low in her ear, in his Frenchified way, 

Of his chateau at home, and the balls at the Tuileries, 

Longchamps, and Chantilly, and other tom-fooleries, 

While poor Madison Mowbray — a rising young lawyer 

Who promised, his friends said, to be a top-sawyer — 

Disconsolate wandered in search of Miss Mary, — 

Seeking here, seeking there, that invisible fairy, 

Who had promised her hand for the very next waltz. 

And who now was accused as the falsest of false. 

Madison Mowbray, go home to your briefs, — 

To your Chitty and Blackstone, and such like reliefs ! 

For though Mary Degai pledged her hand for the 

dance, 
And though Mr. Degai promised it in advance 
To your keeping forever, you '11 never possess it, 
Or swear at the altar to hold and caress it ; 



134 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



For while you are moping in blankest amazement, 
Two black-shrouded figures slip out of the basement, 



^-^^^c<^ 






"Mm 




And so to the corner, then into a carriage, — 
Which looks rather like an elopement and marriage. 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



135 



But, to cut matters short, of the whole the amount 
Is that Mary Degai has run off with the Count. 





ff^ 



mm:'^ 



DilNOUEMENT. 

There 's a tenement-house in Mulberry Street, 
Where thieves, and beggars, and loafers meet, 
A house whose face wears a leprous taint 
Of mouldy plaster and peeling paint. 
The windows are dull as the bleary eyes 
Of a drunken sot, and a black pool lies 
Full of festering garbage outside the door. 
The old stairs shudder from floor to floor. 
As if they shrank with an occult dread 
From the frequent criminal's guilty tread. 
And blasphemous women and drunken men 
Inhabit this foul, accursed den, 



136 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 

And oaths and quarrels disturb the night, 
And ruffianly faces ofifend the light, 
And wretches that dare not look on the sun 
Burrow within till the day is done. 

Here, in a room on the highest flat, — 

The playground of beetle and of rat, — 

Almost roofless, and bare, and cold. 

With the damp walls reeking with slimy mould, 

A woman hung o'er one smouldering ember 

That lay in the grate — it was in December. 

0, how thin she was, and wan ! 

What sunken eyes ! what lips thin drawn ! 

Her mouth how it quivered ! 

Her form how it shivered ! 
Her teeth how they chattered, as if they 'd cheat 

Each skeleton limb 

With the pantomime grim 
Of having something at last to eat ! 

There is no sight more awful, say I, 
To look upon, whether in earth or sky, 
Than the terrible glare of a hungry eye ! 

The woman sat over the smouldering ember. 
Pinched with the cold of that bitter December, 
Passing her hand in a weariful way 
O'er the faint firelight's flickering spray. 
Till might be seen the faint red ray 
Gleam through the thin, transparent palm, 
As one beholds the sunshine calm 
Through a painted window play. 
Who that beheld her in sunnier day. 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 

Lapped in roses and bathed in balm, 
Would credit that this was Mary Degai 1 



137 




But where was the money in stocks and in rents f 

All squandered ! The niggers^ All sold ! The per cents? 



138 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 

All gone ! The magnificent Count Cherami 

Had made with her money a seven-years spree 

In Paris and London : had known figurantes, 

Played at poker and bluff with one-thousand-franc antes, 

Bred racers, built yachts, and in seven years' time 

Neither husband nor wife had as much as a dime. 

There was no help from father. The old man was dead, 

With the curse unrevoked that he 'd laid on her head. 

No help from her husband. A Count could not work 

And slave to enrich some tyrannical Turk. 

No help from herself, — thanks to Madame Cancan, 

She had not a notion of getting along. 

Her fingers revolted from needle and thread. 

And to earn a loaf were by far too well bred. 

Too proud for a beggar, too thin for the stage. 

She lay like a log in this hard-working age, — 

The dreary result of a fashion fanatic, 

And helplessly starved in a comfortless attic. 

Hark ! a step on the stairs ! How her thin cheek grows 

white 
As she cowers away with a shiver of fright. 
And the door is burst open, — the Count staggers in, 
With a hiccup and oath, and a blasphemous din. 
Mad with drink, crazed with hunger, and weary of life. 
He revenges his sins on the head of his wife. 
Let us hasten the door of that garret to close 
On the nakedness, poverty, hunger, and woes, — 
On the oaths, on the shrieks, on the cowardly blows ! 

young ladies who sigh over novels in yellow. 
And think Eugene Sue an exceeding smart fellow, 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 139 

There are more aims in life than a crinoline skirt. 



And a maid may be charming and yet not a flirt ; 
And merit is better than title, my dears : 
In this country we 've no occupation for peers 
Save those ones that our beautiful harbor affords, 
And those piers are worth more than the whole House of 
Lords. 

And though money, I know, 

Is voted quite slow 
In circles pretending to elegant rank, 
There 's no very great sin in a sum at the bank. 
Nor is marriage the portal to idle enjoyment : 
The true salt of life is an active employment. 
And if you have money there 's plenty of work 
In the back-slums and alleys, where starvingly lurk 
Humanity's outcasts, 'mid want and disease, — 
Broken hearts to be healed, craving wants to appease. 
Above all, ye young heroines, take this amount 

Of wholesome advice, 

Which like curry with rice 
Gives a flavor, and saves one from saying things twice. 
Be this axiom forever with you paramount : 
Don't you ever advance all your cash on a Count. 



Madame Cancan still lives, and still ogles and teaches, 
And still her lay sermons on fashion she preaches ; 
Still keeps of smooth phrases the choicest assortment ; 
Still lectures on dress, easy carriage, deportment ; 
And spends all her skill in thus moulding her pets 
Into very-genteelly-got-up marionettes. 
Yes ! puppet 's the word ; for there 's nothing inside 
But a clock work of vanity, fashion, and pride ; 



140 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



Puppets warranted sound, that without any falter 
When wound up will go -just as far as the altar; 




But when once the cap 's donned with the matronly border 
Lo ! the quiet machine goes at once out of order. 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 141 

Ah ! Madame Cancan, you may paint, you may plaster 
Each crevice of time that comes faster and faster ; 
But you cannot avert that black day of disaster, 
When in turn you '11 be summoned youi-self by a Master ! 
You may speak perfect French, and Italian, and Spanish, 
And know how to enter a room and to vanish. 
To flirt with your fan quite as well as did Soto, 
To play well-bred games from ^cart^ to loto ; 
But in spite of all this, won't you look rather small 
When you 're called up before the great Teacher of all 1 
False teacher, false friend, — more, false speaker, false wife, 
Dare you stand to be parsed in the grammar of life 1 
What account will you give of the many pure souls 
To be guided by you through the quicksands and shoals 
That beset their youth's shore 1 Were they harbored or 

wrecked t 
You did n't take trouble to think, I expect ; 

For each cockle-shell boat, 

When you set it afloat. 
Had guitar-strings for ropes, crinoline for a sail, — 
Nice rigging that was to encounter a gale ! 

Ah ! Madame Cancan, our great Master above, 

Who instructs us in charity, virtue, and love, 

When he finds you deficient in all of your lessons, 

A deliberate dunce both in substance and essence. 

Will send you, I fear, to a Finishing School, 

Which differs from yours though, in being less cool, 

And kept on the corporal-punishment rule. 

There 's excellent company there to be found : 

The uppermost ranks you '11 see floating around ; 

Some for grinding the poor are placed there underground, — 

So the hind has his justice as well as the hound. 



142 



THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 



Nor is dress much less thought of there than in Manhattan, 
You may not find silks, but you '11 surely find Satan ; 
And I doubt if you '11 like their severe education, — 
There 's lots to be learned, and no recreation. 
And what 's worse is — you HI never have any vacation. 




STOEIES. 



"Pray you sit by us, and tell's a tale." 

Shakespeare. 




Fitz-James O'Brien. 
From a drawing by Sol Eytinge, Jr. 



STORIES. 



THE DIAMO^-D LEJSTS. 



I. 

THE BENDING OF THE TWIG. 

From a very early period of my life the entire bent of 
my inclinations had been towards microscopic investiga- 
tions. When I was not more than ten years old, a distant 
relative of our family, hoping to astonish my inexpe- 
rience, constructed a simple microscope for me, by drill- 
ing in a disk of copper a small hole, in which a drop of 
pure water was sustained by capillary attraction. This 
very primitive apparatus, magnifying some fifty diame- 
ters, presented, it is true, only indistinct and imperfect 
forms, but still sufficiently wonderful to work up my im- 
agination to a preternatural state of excitement. 

Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, my 
cousin explained to me all that he knew about the princi- 
ples of the microscope, related to me a few of the wonders 
which had been accomplished through its agency, and 
ended by promising to send me one regularly constructed, 
immediately on his return to the city. I counted the 
days, the hours, the minutes, that intervened between 
that promise and his departure. 

Meantime I was not idle. Every transparent substance 
10 



146 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

that bore the remotest resemblance to a lens I eagerly 
seized upon, and employed in vain attempts to realize that 
instrument, the theory of whose construction I as yet 
only vaguely comprehended. All panes of glass contain- 
ing those oblate spheroidal knots familiarly known as 
"bull's-eyes" were ruthlessly destroyed, in the hope of 
obtaining lenses of marvellous power. I even went so far 
as to extract the crystalline humor from the eyes of fishes 
and animals, and endeavored to press it into the micro- 
scopic service. I plead guilty to having stolen the glasses 
from my Aunt Agatha's spectacles, with a dim idea of 
grinding them into lenses of wondrous magnifying prop- 
erties, — in which attempt it is scarcely necessary to say 
that I totally failed. 

At last the promised instrument came. It was of that 
order known as Field's simple microscope, and had cost 
perhaps about fifteen dollars. As far as educational pur- 
poses went, a better apparatus could not have been se- 
lected. Accompanying it was a small treatise on the 
microscope, — its history, uses, and discoveries. I com- 
prehended then for the first time the " Arabian Nights' 
Entertainments." The dull veil of ordinary existence 
that hung across the world seemed suddenly to roll away, 
and to lay bare a land of enchantments. I felt towards 
my companions as the seer might feel towards the ordi- 
nary masses of men. I held conversations with nature 
in a tongue which they could not understand. I was in 
daily communication with living wonders, such as they 
never imagined in their wildest visions. I penetrated be- 
yond the external portal of things, and roamed through 
the sanctuaries. Where they beheld only a drop of rain 
slowly rolling down the window-glass, I saw a universe of 
beings animated with all the passions common to physical 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 147 

life, and convulsing their minute sphere with struggles as 
fierce and protracted as those of men. In the common 
spots of mould, which my mother, good housekeeper that 
she was, fiercely scooped away from her jam pots, there 
abode for me, under the name of mildew, enchanted gar- 
dens, filled with dells and avenues of the densest foliage 
and most astonishing verdure, while from tlie fantastic 
boughs of these microscopic forests hung strange fruits 
glittering with green, and silver, and gold. 

It was no scientific thirst that at this time filled my 
mind. It was the pure enjoyment of a poet to whom a 
world of wonders has been disclosed. I talked of my soli- 
tary pleasures to none. Alone with my microscope, I 
dimmed my sight, day after day and night after night, 
poring over the marvels which it unfolded to me. I was 
like one who, having discovered the ancient Eden still 
existing in all its primitive glory, should resolve to enjoy 
it in solitude, and never betray to mortal the secret of its 
locality. The rod of my life was bent at this moment. 
I destined myself to be a microscopist. 

Of- course, like every novice, I fancied myself a dis- 
coverer. I was ignorant at the time of the thousands of 
acute intellects engaged in the same pursuit as myself, 
and with the advantage of instruments a thousand times 
more powerful than mine. The names of Leeuwenhoek, 
Williamson, Spencer, Ehrenberg, Schultz, Dujardin, Schact, 
and Schleiden were then entirely unknown to me, or if 
known, I was ignorant of their patient and wonderful re- 
searches. In every fresh specimen of cryptogamia which 
I placed beneath my instrument I believed that I discov- 
ered wonders of which the world was as yet ignorant. I 
remember well the thrill of delight and admiration that 
shot through me the first time that I discovered the com- 



148 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

mon wheel animalcule {Rotifera vulgaris) expanding and 
contracting its flexible spokes, and seemingly rotating 
through the water. Alas ! as I grew older, and obtained 
some works treating of my favorite study, I found that 
I was only on the threshold of a science to the investiga- 
tion of which some of the greatest men of the age were 
devoting their lives and intellects. 

As I grew up, my parents, who saw but little likeli- 
hood of anything practical resulting from the examination 
of bits of moss and drops of water through a brass tube 
and a piece of glass, were anxious that I should choose a 
profession. It was their desire that I should enter the 
counting-house of my uncle, Ethan Blake, a prosperous 
merchant, who carried on business in New York. This 
suggestion I decisively combated. I had no taste for 
trade ; I should only make a failure ; in short, I refused 
to become a merchant. 

But it was necessary for me to select some pursuit. 
My parents were staid New England people, who insisted 
on the necessity of labor ; and therefore, although, thanks 
to the bequest of my poor Aunt Agatha, I should, on 
coming of age, inherit a small fortune sufficient to place 
me above want, it was decided that, instead of waiting 
for this, I should act the nobler part, and employ the in- 
tervening years in rendering myself independent. 

After much cogitation I complied with the wishes of 
my family, and selected a profession. I determined to 
study medicine at the New York Academy. This dispo- 
sition of my future suited me. A removal from my rela- 
tives would enable me to dispose of my time as I pleased 
without fear of detection. As long as I paid my Acad- 
emy fees, I might shirk attending the lectures if I chose ; 
and, as I never had the remotest intention of standing an 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 149 

examination, there was no danger of my being " plucked." 
Besides, a metropolis was the place for me. There I could 
obtain excellent instruments, the newest publications, inti- 
macy with men of pursuits kindred with my own, — in 
short, all things necessary to insure a profitable devotion 
of my life to my beloved science. I had an abundance of 
money, few desires that were not bounded by my illumi- 
nating mirror on one side and my object-glass on the 
other ; what, therefore, was to prevent my becoming an 
illustrious investigator of the veiled worlds 1 It was with 
the most buoyant hope that I left my New England 
home and established myself in New York. 



II. 

THE LONGING OF A MAN OF SCIENCE. 

My first step, of course, was to find suitable apartments. 
These I obtained, after a couple of days' search, in Fourth 
Avenue ; a very pretty second-floor unfurnished, contain- 
ing sitting-room, bedroom, and a smaller apartment which 
I intended to fit up as a laboratory. I furnished my 
lodgings simply, but rather elegantly, and then devoted 
all my energies to the adornment of the temple of my 
worship. I visited Pike, the celebrated optician, and 
passed in review his splendid collection of microscopes, — 
Field's Compound, Hingham's, Spencer's, Nachet's Binocu- 
lar, (that founded on the principles of the stereoscope,) 
and at length fixed upon that form known as Spencer's 
Trunnion Microscope, as combining the greatest number of 
improvements with an almost perfect freedom from tre- 
mor. Along with this I purchased every possible accessory, 
— draw-tubes, micrometers, a camera-lucida, lever-stage, 



150 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

achromatic condensers, -white cloud illuminators, prisms, 
parabolic condensers, polarizing apparatus, forceps, aquatic 
boxes, fishing-tubes, with a host of other articles, all of 
which would have been useful in the hands of an expe- 
rienced microscopist, but, as I afterwards discovered, were 
not of the slightest present value to me. It takes years 
of practice to know how to use a complicated microscope. 
The optician looked suspiciously at me as I made these 
wholesale purchases. He evidently was uncertain whether 
to set me down as some scientific celebrity or a madman. 
I think he inclined to the latter belief I suppose I was 
mad. Every great genius is mad upon the subject in 
which he is greatest. The unsuccessful madman is dis- 
^gi-aced and called a lunatic. 

Mad or not, I set myself to work with a zeal which few 
scientific students have ever equalled. I had everything 
to learn relative to the delicate study upon which I had 
embarked, — a study involving the most earnest patience, 
the most rigid analytic powers, the steadiest hand, the 
most untiring eye, the most refined and subtile manipu- 
lation. 

For a long time half my apparatus lay inactively on 
the shelves of my laboratory, which was now most amply 
furnished with every possible contrivance for facilitating 
my investigations. The fact w^as that I did not know 
how to use some of my scientific implements, — never 
having been taught microscopies, — and those whose use I 
understood theoretically were of little avail, until by prac- 
tice I could attain the necessary delicacy of handling. 
Still, such was the fury of my ambition, such the untiring 
perseverance of my experiments, that, difficult of credit 
as it may be, in the course of one year I became theoreti- 
cally and practically an accomplished microscopist. 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 151 

During this period of my labors, in which I submitted 
specimens of every substance that came under my obser- 
vation to the action of my lenses, I became a discoverer, 
— in a small way, it is true, for I was very young, but 
still a discoverer. It was I who destroyed Ehrenberg's 
theory that the Volvox globator was an animal, and proved 
that his " monads " with stomachs and eyes were merely 
phases of the formation of a vegetable cell, and were, when 
they reached their mature state, incapable of the act of 
conjugation, or any true generative act, without which no 
organism rising to any stage of life higher than vegetable 
can be said to be complete. It was I who resolved the 
singular problem of rotation in the cells and hairs of 
plants into ciliary attraction, in spite of the assertions of 
Mr. Wenham and others, that my explanation was the 
result of an optical illusion. 

But notwithstanding these discoveries, laboriously and 
painfully made as they were, I felt horribly dissatisfied. 
At every step I found myself stopped by the imperfections 
of my instruments. Like all active microscopists, I gave 
my imagination full play. Indeed, it is a common com- 
plaint against many such, that they supply the defects of 
their instruments with the creations of their brains. I 
imagined depths beyond depths in nature which the lim- 
ited power of my lenses prohibited me from exploring. I 
lay awake at night constructing imaginary microscopes 
of immeasurable power, with which I seemed to pierce 
through all the envelopes of matter down to its original 
atom. How I cursed those imperfect mediums which ne- 
cessity through ignorance compelled me to use ! How I 
longed to discover the secret of some perfect lens, whose 
magnifying power should be limited only by the resolva- 
bility of the object, and which at the same time should 



152 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

be free from spherical and chromatic aberrations, in short 
from all the obstacles over which the poor microscopist 
finds himself continually stumbling ! I felt convinced that 
the simple microscope, composed of a single lens of such 
vast yet perfect power was possible of construction. To 
attempt to bring the compound microscope up to such a 
pitch would have been commencing at the wrong end; 
this latter being simply a partially successful endeavor 
to remedy those very defects of the simple instrument, 
which, if conquered, would leave nothing to be desired. 

It was in this mood of mind that I became a construct- 
ive microscopist. After another year passed in this new 
pursuit, experimenting on every imaginable substance, — 
glass, gems, flints, crystals, artificial crystals formed of 
the alloy of varous vitreous materials, — in short, having 
constructed as many varieties of lenses as Argus had eyes, 
I found myself precisely where I started, with nothing 
gained save an extensive knowledge of glass-making. I 
was almost dead with despair. My parents were sur- 
prised at my apparent want of progress in my medical 
studies, (I had not attended one lecture since my arrival 
in the city,) and the expenses of my mad pursuit had 
been so great as to embarrass me very seriously. 

I was in this frame of mind one day, experimenting in 
my laboratory on a small diamond, — that stone, from its 
great refracting power, having always occupied my at- 
tention more than any other, — when a young Frenchman, 
who lived on the floor above me, and who was in the 
habit of occasionally visiting me, entered the room. 

I think that Jules Simon was a Jew. He had many 
traits of the Hebrew character : a love of jewelry, of dress, 
and of good living. There was something mysterious 
about him. He always had something to sell, and yet 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 153 

went into excellent society. When I say sell, I should 
perhaps have said peddle ; for his operations were gener- 
ally confined to the disposal of single articles, — a picture, 
for instance, or a rare carving in ivory, or a pair of duel- 
ling-pistols, or the dress of a Mexican cahallero. When I 
was first furnishing my rooms, he paid me a visit, which 
ended in my purchasing an antique silver lamp, which he 
assured me was a Cellini, — it was handsome enough 
even for that, — and some other knickknacks for my 
sitting-room. Why Simon should pursue this petty trade 
I never could imagine. He apparently had plenty of 
money, and had the entree of the best houses in the city, 

— taking care, however, I suppose, to drive no bargains 
within the enchanted circle of the Upper Ten. I came 
at length to the conclusion that this peddling was but a 
mask to cover some greater object, and even went so far 
as to believe my young acquaintance to be implicated in 
the slave-trade. That, however, was none of my afixiir. 

On the present occasion, Simon entered my room in a 
state of considerable excitement. 

^^ Ah! mon ami I " he cried, before I could even offer 
him the ordinary salutation, "it has occurred to me to 
be the witness of the most astonishing things in the 
world. I promenade myself to the house of Madame 

How does the little animal — le renard — name 

himself in the Latin 1 " 

" Vulpes," I answered. 

" Ah ! yes, — Vulpes. I promenade myself to the 
house of Madame Vulpes." 

" The spirit medium ] " 

" Yes, the great medium. Great heavens ! what a 
woman ! I write on a slip of paper many of questions 
concerning affairs the most secret, — affairs that conceal 



154 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

themselves in the abysses of my heart the most profound ; 
and behold ! by example ! what occurs ? This devil of a 
woman makes me replies the most truthful to all of them. 
She talks to me of things that I do not love to talk of to 
myself What am I to think ? I am fixed to the earth ! " 

" Am I to understand you, M. Simon, that this Mrs. 
Vulpes replied to questions secretly written by you, which 
questions related to events known only to yourself?" 

" Ah ! more than that, more than that," he answered, 
with an air of some alarm. " She related to me things — 
But," he added, after a pause, and suddenly changing his 
manner, " why occupy ourselves with these follies 1 It 
was all the biology, without doubt. It goes without say- 
ing that it has not my credence. — But why are we here, 
moji ami ? It has occurred to me to discover the most 
beautiful thing as you can imagine, — a vase with green 
lizards on it, composed by the great Bernard Palissy. It 
is in my apartment ; let us mount. I go to show it to 
you." 

I followed Simon mechanically ; but my thoughts were 
far from Palissy and his enamelled ware, although I, like 
him, was seeking in the dark a great discovery. This 
casual mention of the spiritualist, Madame Vulpes, set me 
on a new track. What if this spiritualism should be re- 
ally a great fact 1 What if, through communication with 
more subtile organisms than my own, I could reach at a 
single bound the goal, which perhaps a life of agonizing 
mental toil would never enable me to attain ] 

While purchasing the Palissy vase from my friend 
Simon, I was mentally arranging a visit to Madame 
Vulpes. 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 155 

III. 

THE SPIRIT OF LEEUWENHOEK. 

Two evenings after this, thanks to an arrangement by 
letter and the promise of an ample fee, I found Madame 
Vulpes awaiting me at her residence alone. She was a 
coarse-featured woman, with keen and rather cruel dark 
eyes, and an exceedingly sensual expression about her 
mouth and under jaw. She received me in perfect silence, 
in an apartment on the ground floor, very sparely fur- 
nished. In the centre of the room, close to where Mrs. 
Vulpes sat, there was a common round mahogany ta- 
ble. If I had come for the purpose of sweeping her 
chimney, the woman could not have looked more indif- 
ferent to my appearance. There was no attempt to 
inspire the visitor with awe. Everything bore a sim- 
ple and practical aspect. This intercourse with the 
spiritual world was evidently as familiar an occupation 
with Mrs. Vulpes as eating her dinner or riding in an 
omnibus. 

" You come for a communication, Mr. Linley 1 " said 
the medium, in a dry, business-like tone of voice. 

" By appointment, — yes." 

"What sort of communication do you want? — a 
written one 1 " 

"Yes, — I wish for a written one." 

" From any particular spirit 1 " 

"Yes." 

" Have you ever known this spirit on this earth 1 " 

"Never. He died long before I was born. I wish 
merely to obtain from him some information which he 
ought to be able to give better than any other." 



156 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

" Will you seat yourself at the table, Mr. Linley," said 
the medium, "and place your hands upon it 1" 

I obeyed, — Mrs. Vulpes being seated opposite to me, 
with her hands also on the table. We remained thus for 
about a minute and a half, when a violent succession of 
raps came on the table, on the back of my chair, on the 
floor immediately under my feet, and even on the window- 
panes. Mrs. Vulpes smiled composedly. 

" They are very strong to-night," she remarked. " You 
are fortunate." She then continued, " Will the spirits 
communicate with this gentleman ] " 

Vigorous afiBrmative. 

*' Will the particular spirit he desires to speak with 
communicate 1 " 

A very confused rapping followed this question. 

*' I know what they mean," said Mrs. Vulpes, address- 
ing herself to me ; " they wish you to write down the 
name of the particular spirit that you desire to converse 
with. Is that so 1 " she added, speaking to her invisible 
guests. 

That it was so was evident from the numerous affirma- 
tory responses. While this was going on, I tore a slip 
from my pocket-book, and scribbled a name, under the 
table. 

"Will this spirit communicate in writing with this 
gentleman ] " asked the medium once more. 

After a moment's pause, her hand seemed to be seized 
with a violent tremor, shaking so forcibly that the table 
vibrated. She said that a spirit had seized her hand and 
would write. I handed her some sheets of paper that 
were on the table, and a pencil. The latter she held 
loosely in her hand, which presently began to move over 
the paper with a singular and seemingly invohmtary mo- 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 157 

tion. After a few moments had elapsed, she handed 
me the paper, on which I found written, in a large, un- 
cultivated hand, the words, "He is not here, but has 
been sent for." A pause of a minute or so now ensued, 
during which Mrs. Vulpes remained perfectly silent, but 
the raps continued at regular intervals. When the short 
period I mention had elapsed, the hand of the medium 
was again seized with its convulsive tremor, and she 
wrote, under this strange influence, a few words on the 
paper, which she handed to me. They were as follows : — 

*' I am here. Question me. 

" Leeuwenhoek." 

I was astounded. The name was identical with that I 
had written beneath the table, and carefully kept con- 
cealed. Neither was it at all probable that an unculti- 
vated woman like Mrs. Vulpes should know even the 
name of the great father of microscopies. It may have 
been biology ; but this theory was soon doomed to be de- 
stroyed. I wrote on my slip — still concealing it from 
Mrs. Vulpes — a series of questions, which, to avoid 
tediousness, I shall place with the responses, in the order 
in which they occurred : — 

I. — Can the microscope be brought to perfection 1 

Spirit. — Yes. 

I. — Am I destined to accomplish this great task 1 

Spirit. — You are. 

I. — I wish to know how to proceed to attain this end. 
For the love which you bear to science, help me ! 

Spirit. — A diamond of one hundred and forty carats, 
submitted to electro-magnetic currents for a long period, 
will experience a rearrangement of its atoms inter se, and 
from that stone you will form the universal lens. 



158 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

I. — Will great discoveries result from the use of such 
a lens 1 

Spirit. — So great that all that has gone before is as 
nothing. 

I. — But the refractive power of the diamond is so 
immense, that the image will be formed within the lens. 
How is that difficulty to be surmounted 1 

Spirit. — Pierce the lens through its axis, and the 
difficulty is obviated. The image will be formed in the 
pierced space, which will itself serve as a tube to look 
through. Now I am called. Good night. 

I cannot at all describe the effect that these extraordi- 
nary communications had upon me. I felt completely 
bewildered. No biological theory could account for the 
discovery of the lens. The medium might, by means of 
biological rafpport with my mind, have gone so far as to 
read my questions, and reply to them coherently. But 
biology could not enable her to discover that magnetic 
currents would so alter the crystals of the diamond as to 
remedy its previous defects, and admit of its being pol- 
ished into a perfect lens. Some such theory may have 
passed through my head, it is true ; but if so, I had for- 
gotten it. In my excited condition of mind there was no 
course left but to become a convert, and it was in a state 
of the most painful nervous exaltation that I left the 
medium's house that evening. She accompanied me to 
the door, hoping that I was satisfied. The raps followed 
us as we went through the hall, sounding on the balusters, 
the flooring, and even the lintels of the door. I hastily 
expressed my satisfaction, and escaped hurriedly into the 
cool night air. I walked home with but one thought pos- 
sessing me, — how to obtain a diamond of the immense 
size required. My entire means multiplied a hundred 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 159 

times over would have been inadequate to its purchase. 
Besides, such stones are rare, and become historical. I 
could find such only in the regalia of Eastern or European 
monarchs. 



IV. 

THE EYE OF MORNING. 

There was a light in Simon's room as I entered my 
house. A vague impulse urged me to visit him. As I 
opened the door of his sitting-room unannounced, he was 
bending, with his back toward me, over a carcel lamp, 
apparently engaged in minutely examining some object 
which he held in his hands. As I entered, he started 
suddenl}^, thrust his hand into his breast pocket, and 
turned to me with a face crimson with confusion. 

*' What ! " I cried, " poring over the miniature of some 
fair lady 1 Well, don't blush so much ; I won't ask to 
see it." 

Simon laughed awkwardly enough, but made none of 
the negative protestations usual on such occasions. He 
asked me to take a seat. 

"Simon," said I, "I have just come from Madame 
Vulpes." 

This time Simon turned as white as a sheet, and seemed 
stupefied, as if a sudden electric shock had smitten him. 
He babbled some incoherent words, and went hastily to a 
small closet where he usually kept his liquors. Although 
astonished at his emotion, I was too preoccupied with my 
own idea to pay much attention to anything else. 

" You say truly when you call Madame Vulpes a devil 
of a woman,'* I continued. " Simon, she told me wonder- 



160 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

ful things to-night, or rather was the means of telling me 
wonderful things. Ah ! if I could only get a diamond 
that weighed one hundred and forty carats ! " 

Scarcely had the sigh with which I uttered this desire 
died upon my lips, when Simon, with the aspect of a wild 
beast, glared at me savagely, and, rushing to the mantel- 
piece, where some foreign weapons hung on the wall, 
caught up a Malay creese, and brandished it furiously 
before him. 

" No ! " he cried in French, into which he always broke 
when excited. " No ! you shall not have it ! You are 
perfidious ! You have consulted with that demon, and 
desire my treasure ! But I will die first ! Me ! I am 
brave ! You cannot make me fear ! " 

All this, littered in a loud voice trembling with ex- 
citement, astounded me. I saw at a glance that I had 
accidentally trodden upon the edges of Simon's secret, 
whatever it was. It was necessary to reassure him. 

" My dear Simon," I said, " I am entirely at a loss to 
know what you mean. I went to Madame Vulpes to 
consult with her on a scientific problem, to the solution 
of which I discovered that a diamond of the size I just 
mentioned was necessary. You were never alluded to 
during the evening, nor, so far as I was concerned, even 
thought of. What can be the meaning of this outburst ? 
If you happen to have a set of valuable diamonds in your 
possession, you need fear nothing from me. The diamond 
which I require you could not possess ; or, if you did 
possess it, you would not be living here." 

Something in my tone must have completely reassured 
him ; for his expression immediately changed to a sort of 
constrained merriment, combined, however, with a certain 
suspicious attention to my movements. He laughed, and 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 161 

said that I must bear with him ; that he was at certain 
moments subject to a species of vertigo, which betrayed 
itself in incoherent speeches, and that the attacks passed 
off as rapidly as they came. He put his weapon aside 
while making this explanation, and endeavored, with some 
success, to assume a more cheerful air. 

All this did not impose on me in the least. I was too 
much accustomed to analytical labors to be baffled by so 
flimsy a veil. I determined to probe the mystery to the 
bottom. 

"Simon," I said, gayly, "let us forget all this over a 
bottle of Burgundy. I have a case of Lausseure's Clos 
Vougeot down-stairs, fragrant with the odors and ruddy 
with the sunlight of the Cote d'Or. Let us have up a 
couple of bottles. What say you ? " 

" With all my heart," answered Simon, smilingly. 

I produced the wine and we seated ourselves to drink. 
It was of a famous vintage, that of 1848, a year when 
war and wine throve together, — and its pure but power- 
ful juice seemed to impart renewed vitality to the system. 
By the time we had half finished the second bottle, Si- 
mon's head, which I knew was a weak one, had begun to 
yield, while I remained calm as ever, only that every 
draught seemed to send a flush of vigor through my 
limbs. Simon's utterance became more and more indis- 
tinct. He took to singing French chansons of a not very 
moral tendency. I rose suddenly from the table just at 
the conclusion of one of those incoherent verses, and, fix- 
ing my eyes on him with a quiet smile, said : " Simon, I 
have deceived you. I learned your secret this evening. 
You may as well be frank with me. Mrs. Vulpes, or 
rather one of her spirits, told me all." 

He started with horror. His intoxication seemed for 
11 



162 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

the moment to fade away, and he made a movement 
towards the weapon that he had a short time before laid 
down. I stopped him with my hand. 

" Monster ! " he cried, passionately, " I am ruined ! 
What shall I do ^ You shall never have it ! I swear by 
my mother ! " 

" I don't want it," I said ; " rest secure, but be frank 
with me. Tell me all about it." 

The drunkenness began to return. He protested with 
maudlin earnestness that I was entirely mistaken, — that 
I was intoxicated ; then asked me to swear eternal secrecy, 
and promised to disclose the mystery to me. I pledged 
myself, of course, to all. With an uneasy look in his eyes, 
and hands unsteady with drink and nervousness, he drew 
a small case from his breast and opened it. Heavens ! 
How the mild lamp-light was shivered into a thousand 
prismatic arrows, as it fell upon a vast rose-diamond that 
glittered in the case! I was no judge of diamonds, but 
I saw at a glance that this was a gem of rare size and 
purity. I looked at Simon with wonder, and — must I 
confess it] — with envy. How could he have obtained 
this treasure 1 In reply to my questions, I could just 
gather from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, 
half the incoherence was affected) .that he had been su- 
perintending a gang of slaves engaged in diamond-wash- 
ing in Brazil ; that he had seen one of them secrete a 
diamond, but, instead of informing his employers, had 
quietly watched the negro until he saw him bury his 
treasure ; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but 
that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it pub- 
licly, — so valuable a gem being almost certain to attract 
too much attention to its owner's antecedents, — and he 
had not been able to discover any of those obscure chan- 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 163 

nels by which such matters are conveyed away safely. 
He added, that, in accordance with oriental practice, he 
had named his diamond with the fanciful title of " The 
Eye of Morning." 

While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the 
great diamond attentively. Never had I beheld any- 
thing so beautiful. All the glories of light, ever ima- 
gined or described, seemed to pulsate in its crystalline 
chambers. Its weight, as I learned from Simon, was 
exactly one hundred and forty carats. Here was an 
amazing coincidence. The hand of destiny seemed in it. 
On the very evening when the spirit of Leeuwenhoek 
communicates to me the great secret of the microscope, 
the priceless means which he directs me to employ start 
up within my easy reach ! I determined, with the most 
perfect deliberation, to possess myself of Simon's diamond. 

I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and 
calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant 
contemplate so foolish an act as a common theft, which 
would of course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight 
and concealment, all of which must interfere with my 
scientific plans. There was but one step to be taken, — 
to kill Simon. After all, what was the life of a little ped- 
dling Jew, in comparison with the interests of science 1 
Human beings are taken every day from the condemned 
prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This man, 
Simon, was by his own confession a criminal, a robber, 
and I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved 
death quite as much as any felon condemned by the laws : 
why should I not, like government, contrive that his pun- 
ishment should contribute to the progress of human 
knowledge 1 

The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay 



164 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

within my reach. There stood upon the mantel-piece a 
bottle half full of French laudanum. Simon was so occu- 
pied with his diamond, which I had just restored to him, 
that it was an affair of no difficulty to drug his glass. In 
a quarter of an hour he was in a profound sleep. 

I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the 
inner pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him 
to the bed, on which I laid him so that his feet hung 
down over the edge. I had possessed myself of the Ma- 
lay creese, which I held in my right hand, while with the 
other I discovered as accurately as I could by pulsation 
the exact locality of the heart. It was essential that all 
the aspects of his death should lead to the surmise of self- 
murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was 
probable that the weapon, if levelled by Simon's own 
hand, would enter his breast; then with one powerful 
blow I thrust it up to the hilt in the very spot which I 
desired to penetrate. A convulsive thrill ran through 
Simon's limbs. I heard a smothered sound issue from 
his throat, precisely like the bursting of a large air-bub- 
ble, sent up by a diver, when it reaches the surface of 
the water ; he turned half round on his side, and, as if to 
assist my plans more effectually, his right hand, moved 
by some mere spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of 
the creese, which it remained holding with extraordinary 
muscular tenacity. Beyond this there was no apparent 
struggle. The laudanum, I presume, paralyzed the usual 
nervous action. He must have died instantly. 

There was yet something to be done. To make it 
certain that all suspicion of the act should be diverted 
from any inhabitant of the house to Simon himself, it 
was necessary that the door should be found in the 
morning locked on the inside. How to do this, and after- 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 165 

wards escape myself? Not by the window ; that was a 
physical impossibility. Besides, I was determined that 
the windows also should be found bolted. The solution 
was simple enough. I descended softly to my own room 
for a peculiar instrument which I had used for holding 
small slippery substances, such as minute spheres of glass, 
etc. This instrument was nothing more than a long 
slender hand-vice, with a very powerful grip, and a con- 
siderable leverage, which last was accidentally owing to 
the shape of the handle. Nothing was simpler than, 
when the key was in the lock, to seize the end of its stem 
in this vice, through the keyhole, from the outside, and 
so lock the door. Previously, however, to doing this, I 
burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides 
almost always burn papers before they destroy themselves. 
I also emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass, — 
having first removed from it all traces of wine, — cleaned 
the other wine-glass, and brought the bottles away with 
me. If traces of two persons drinking had been found 
in the room, the question naturally would have arisen, 
Who was the second*? Besides, the wine-bottles might 
have been identified as belonging to me. The laudanum 
I poured out to account for its presence in his stomach, 
in case of a post-mortem examination. The theory natu- 
rally would be, that he first intended to poison himself, 
but, after swallowing a little of the drug, was either dis- 
gusted with its taste, or changed his mind from other 
motives, and chose the dagger. These arrangements 
made, I walked out, leaving the gas burning, locked the 
door with my vice, and went to bed. 

Simon's death was not discovered until nearly three in 
the afternoon. The servant, astonished at seeing the gas 
burning, — the light streaming on the dark landing from 



166 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

under the door, — peeped through the keyhole and saw 
Simon on the bed. She gave the alarm. The door was 
burst open, and the neighborhood was in a fever of ex- 
citement. 

Every one in the house was arrested, myself included. 
There was an inquest ; but no clew to his death beyond 
that of suicide could be obtained. Curiously enough, he 
had made several speeches to his friends the preceding 
week, that seemed to point to self-destruction. One gen- 
tleman swore that Simon had said in his presence that 
" he was tired of life." His landlord affirmed that Si- 
mon, when paying him his last month's rent, remarked 
that *'he should not pay him rent much longer." All the 
other evidence corresponded, — the door locked inside, 
the position of the corpse, the burnt papers. As I anti- 
cipated, no one knew of the possession of the diamond by 
Simon, so that no motive was suggested for his murder. 
The jury, after a prolonged examination, brought in the 
usual verdict, and the neighborhood once more settled 
down into its accustomed quiet. 



ANIMULA. 

The three months succeeding Simon's catastrophe I 
devoted night and day to my diamond lens. I had con- 
structed a vast galvanic battery, composed of nearly two 
thousand pairs of plates, — a higher power I dared not 
use, lest the diamond should be calcined. By means of 
this enormous engine I was enabled to send a powerful 
current of electricity continually through my great dia- 
mond, which it seemed to me gained in lustre every day. 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 167 

At the expiration of a month I commenced the grinding 
and polishing of the lens, a work of intense toil and 
exquisite delicacy. The great density of the stone, and 
the care required to be taken with the curvatures of the 
surfaces of the lens, rendered the labor the severest and 
most harassing that I had yet undergone. 

At last the eventful moment came ; the lens was com- 
pleted. I stood trembling on the threshold of new 
worlds. I had the realization of Alexander's famous wish 
before me. The lens lay on the table, ready to be placed 
upon its platform. My hand fairly shook as I enveloped 
a drop of water with a thin coating of oil of turpentine, 
preparatory to its examination, — a process necessary in 
order to prevent the rapid evaporation of the water. I 
now placed the drop on a thin slip of glass under the 
lens, and throwing upon it, by the combined aid of a 
prism and a mirror, a powerful stream of light, I ap- 
proached my eye to the minute hole drilled through the 
axis of the lens. For an instant I saw nothing save what 
seemed to be an illuminated chaos, a vast luminous abyss. 
A pure white light, cloudless and serene, and seemingly 
limitless as space itself, was my first impression. Gently, 
and with the greatest care, I depressed the lens a few 
hair's-breadths. The wondrous illumination still contin- 
ued, but as the lens approached the object a scene of 
indescribable beauty was unfolded to my view. 

I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of which 
extended far beyond my vision. An atmosphere of magi- 
cal luminousness permeated the entire field of view. I 
was amazed to see no trace of animalculous life. Not a 
living thing, apparently, inhabited that dazzling expanse. 
I comprehended instantly that, by the wondrous power 
of my lens, I had penetrated beyond, the grosser particles 



168 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

of aqueous matter, beyond the realms of infusoria and 
protozoa, down to the original gaseous globule, into whose 
luminous interior I was gazing, as into an almost bound- 
less dome filled with a supernatural radiance. 

It was, however, no brilliant void into which I looked. 
On every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of un- 
known texture, and colored with the most enchanting 
hues. These forms presented the appearance of what 
might be called, for want of a more specific definition, 
foliated clouds of the highest rarity ; that is, they undu- 
lated and broke into vegetable formations, and were tinged 
with splendors compared with which the gilding of our 
autumn woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far 
away into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues 
of these gaseous forests, dimly transparent, and painted 
with prismatic hues of unimaginable brilliancy. The 
pendent branches waved along the fluid glades until 
every vista seemed to break through half-lucent ranks of 
many-colored drooping silken pennons. What seemed to 
be either fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues, 
lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the crowns of 
this fairy foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms 
animate or inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast 
auroral copses that floated serenely in the luminous still- 
ness, with leaves and fruits and flowers gleaming with 
unknown fires, unrealizable by mere imagination. 

How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus 
condemned to solitude ! I had hoped, at least, to discover 
some new form of animal life, — perhaps of a lower class 
than any with which we are at present acquainted, but 
still, some living organism. I found my newly discovered 
world, if I may so speak, a beautiful chromatic desert. 

While I was speculating on the singular arrangements 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 169 

of the internal economy of JSTature, with which she so 
frequently splinters into atoms our most compact theo- 
ries, I thought I beheld a form moving slowly through the 
glades of one of the prismatic forests. I looked more 
attentively, and found that 1 was not mistaken. Words 
cannot depict the anxiety with which I awaited the nearer 
approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely some 
inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated 
atmosphere of the globule 1 or was it an animal endowed 
with vitality and motion 1 It approached, flitting behind 
the gauzy, colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly 
revealed, then vanishing. At last the violet pennons that 
trailed nearest to me vibrated ; they were gently pushed 
aside, and the form floated out into the broad light. 

It was a female human shape. When I say human, I 
mean it possessed the outlines of humanity, — but there 
the analogy ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimita- 
ble heights beyond the loveliest daughter of Adam. 

I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms 
of this divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes 
of mystic violet, dewy and serene, evade my words. Her 
long, lustrous hair following her glorious head in a golden 
wake, like the track sown in heaven by a falling star, 
seems to quench my most burning phrases with its splen- 
dors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled upon my lips, 
they would still sing but hoarsely the wondrous harmo- 
nies of outline that enclosed her form. 

She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains of 
the cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. 
Her motions were those of some graceful naiad, cleaving, 
by a mere effort of her will, the clear, unruffled waters 
that fill the chambers of the sea. She floated forth with 
the serene grace of a frail bubble ascending through the 



170 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

still atmosphere of a June day. The perfect roundness 
of her limbs formed suave and enchanting curves. It 
was like listening to the most spiritual symphony of 
Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow of 
lines. This, indeed, was a pleasure cheaply purchased 
at any price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal 
of this wonder through another's blood 1 I would have 
given ray own to enjoy one such moment of intoxication 
and delight. 

Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and for- 
getful for an instant of everything save her presence, I 
withdrew my eye from the microscope eagerly, — alas ! 
As my gaze fell on the thin slide that lay beneath my 
instrument, the bright light from mirror and from prism 
sparkled on a colorless drop of water ! There, in that 
tiny bead of dew, this beautiful being was forever impris- 
oned. The planet Neptune was not more distant from 
me than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to 
the microscope. 

Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which 
I subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her posi- 
tion. She had again approached the wondrous forest, 
and was gazing earnestly upwards. Presently one of the 
trees — as I must call them — unfolded a long ciliary pro- 
cess, with which it seized one of the gleaming fruits that 
glittered on its summit, and, sweeping slowly down, held 
it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her 
delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so en- 
tirely absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to 
the task of determining whether this singular plant was 
or was not instinct with volition. 

I watched her, as she made her repast, with the most 
profound attention. The suppleness of her motions sent 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 171 

a thrill of delight through my frame ; my heart beat 
madly as she turned her beautiful eyes in the direction of 
the spot in which I stood. What would I not have given 
to have had the power to precipitate myself into that 
luminous ocean, and float with her through those groves 
of purple and gold ! While I was thus breathlessly fol- 
lowing her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed 
to listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant 
ether in which she was floating, like a flash of light, 
pierced through the opaline forest, and disappeared. 

Instantly a series of the most singular sensations at- 
tacked me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. 
The luminous sphere was still before me, but my daylight 
had vanished. What caused this sudden disappearence 1 
Had she a lover or a husband ] Yes, that was the solu- 
tion ! Some signal from a happy fellow-being had vibrated 
through the avenues of the forest, and she had obeyed 
the summons. 

The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this con- 
clusion, startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that 
my reason forced upon me. I battled against the fatal 
conclusion, — but in vain. It was so. I had no escape 
from it. I loved an animalcule ! 

It is true that, thanks to the marvellous power of my 
microscope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead 
of presenting the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures, 
that live and struggle and die, in the more easily resolv- 
able portions of the water-drop, she was fair and delicate 
and of surpassing beauty. But of what account was all 
that 1 Every time that my eye was withdrawn from the 
instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of water, within 
which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that could 
make my life lovely. 



172 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

Could she but see me once ! Could I for one moment 
pierce the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to sep- 
arate us, and whisper all that filled my soul, I might 
consent to be satisfied for the rest of my life with the 
knowledge of her remote sympathy. It would be some- 
thing to have established even the faintest personal link 
to bind us together, — to know that at times, when roam- 
ing through those enchanted glades, she might think of 
the wonderful stranger, who had broken the monotony of 
her life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in 
her heart ! 

But it could not be. No invention of which human 
intellect was capable could break down the barriers that 
nature had erected. I might feast my soul upon her 
wondrous beauty, yet she must always remain ignorant 
of the adoring eyes that day and night gazed- upon her, 
and, even when closed, beheld her in dreams. With a 
bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room, and, flinging 
myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a child. 



VI. 

THE SPILLING OP THE CUP. 

I AROSE the next morning almost at daybreak, and 
rushed to my microscope. I trembled as I sought the 
luminous world in miniature that contained my all. Ani- 
mula was there. I had left the gas-lamp, surrounded by 
its moderators, burning, when I went to bed the night 
before. I found the sylph bathing, as it were, with an 
expression of pleasure animating her features, in the bril- 
liant light which surrounded her. She tossed her lustrous 
golden hair over her shoulders with innocent coquetry. 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 173 

She lay at full length in the transparent medium, in 
which she supported herself with ease, and gambolled 
with the enchanting grace that the nymph Salmacis 
might have exhibited when she sought to conquer the 
modest Hermaphroditus. I tried an experiment to sat- 
isfy myself if her powers of reflection were developed. I 
lessened the lamp-light considerably. By the dim light 
that remained, I could see an expression of pain flit across 
her face. She looked upward suddenly, and her brows 
contracted. I flooded the stage of the microscope again 
with a full stream of light, and her whole expression 
changed. She sprang forward like some substance de- 
prived of all weight. Her eyes sparkled and her lips 
moved. Ah ! if science had only the means of conduct- 
ing and reduplicating sounds, as it does the rays of light, 
what carols of happiness would then have entranced my 
ears ! what jubilant hymns to Adonais would have thrilled 
the illumined air ! 

I now comprehended how it was that the Count de Ga- 
balis peopled his mystic world with sylphs, — beautiful 
beings whose breath of life was lambent fire, and who 
sported forever in regions of purest ether and purest light. 
The Rosicrucian had anticipated the wonder that I had 
practically realized. 

How long this worship of my strange divinity went on 
thus I scarcely know. I lost all note of time. All day 
from early dawn, and far into the night, I was to be 
found peering through that wonderful lens. I saw no 
one, went nowhere, and scarce allowed myself sufficient 
time for my meals. My whole life was absorbed in con- 
templation as rapt as that of any of the Romish saints. 
Every hour that I gazed upon the divine form strength- 
ened my passion, — a passion that was always overshad- 



174 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

owed by the maddening conviction, that, although I could 
gaze on her at will, she never, never could behold me! 

At length, I grew so pale and emaciated, from w-ant of 
rest, and continual brooding over my insane love and its 
cruel conditions, that I determined to make some effort 
to wean myself from it. "Come," I said, "this is at best 
but a fantasy. Your imagination has bestowed on Ani- 
mula charms which in reality she does not possess. Se- 
clusion from female society has produced this morbid 
condition of mind. Compare her with the beautiful wo- 
men of your own world, and this false enchantment will 
vanish." 

I looked over the newspapers by chance. There I 
beheld the advertisement of a celebrated danseuse who 
appeared nightly at Niblo's. The Signorina Caradolce 
had the reputation of being the most beautiful as well as 
the most graceful woman in the world. I instantly 
dressed and went to the theatre. 

The curtain drew up. The usual semicircle of fairies 
in white muslin w^ere standing on the right toe around 
the enamelled flower-bank, of green canvas, on which the 
belated prince was sleeping. Suddenly a flute is heard. 
The fairies start. The trees open, the fairies all stand 
on the left toe, and the queen enters. It was the Signo- 
rina. She bounded forward amid thunders of applause, 
and, lighting on one foot, remained poised in air. Heav- 
ens ! was this the great enchantress that had drawn mon- 
archs at her chariot-wheels 1 Those heavy muscular 
limbs, those thick ankles, those cavernous eyes, that stere- 
otyped smile, those crudely painted cheeks ! Where were 
the vermeil blooms, the liquid expressive eyes, the har- 
monious limbs of Animula"? 

The Signorina danced. What gross, discordant move- 



THE DIAMOND LENS. 175 

ments ! The play of her limbs was all false and artificial. 
Her bounds were painful athletic efforts ; her poses were 
angular and distressed the eye. I could bear it no longer; 
with an exclamation of disgust that drew every eye upon 
me, I rose from my seat in the very middle of the Signo- 
rina's pas-de-fascination, and abruptly quitted the house. 

I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on the 
lovely form of my sylph, I felt that henceforth to com- 
bat this passion would be impossible. I applied my eye 
to the lens. Animula was there, — but what could have 
happened 1 Some terrible change seemed to have taken 
place during my absence. Some secret grief seemed to 
cloud the lovely features of her I gazed upon. Her face 
had grown thin and haggard ; her limbs trailed heavily ; 
the wondrous lustre of her golden hair had faded. She 
was ill ! — ill, and I could not assist her ! I believe at 
that moment I would have gladly forfeited all claims to 
my human birthright, if I could only have been dwarfed 
to the size of an animalcule, and permitted to console her 
from whom fate had forever divided me. 

I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. 
What was it that afflicted the sylph"? She seemed to suf- 
fer intense pain. Her features contracted, and she even 
writhed, as if with some internal agony. The wondrous 
forests appeared also to have lost half their beauty. Their 
hues were dim and in some places faded away altogether. 
I watched Animula for hours with a breaking heart, and 
she seemed absolutely to wither away under my very eye. 
Suddenly I remembered that I had not looked at the 
water-drop for several days. In fact, I hated to see it ; 
for it reminded me of the natural barrier between Ani- 
mula and myself. I hurriedly looked down on the stage 
of the microscope. The slide was still there, — but, great 



176 THE DIAMOND LENS. 

heavens ! the water-drop had vanished ! The awful truth 
burst upon me; it had evaporated, until it had become 
so minute as to be invisible to the naked eye ; I had been 
gazing on its last atom, the one that contained Animula, 
— and she was dying ! 

I rushed again to the front of the lens, and looked 
through. Alas! the last agony had seized her. The 
rainbow-hued forests had all melted away, and Animula 
lay struggling feebly in what seemed to be a spot of dim 
light. Ah ! the sight was horrible : the limbs once so 
round and lovely shrivelling up into nothings ; the eyes — 
those eyes that shone like heaven. — being quenched into 
black dust ; the lustrous golden hair now lank and dis- 
colored. The last throe came. I beheld that final strug- 
gle of the blackening form — and I fainted. 

When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I found 
myself lying amid the wreck of my instrument, myself as 
shattered in mind and body as it. I crawled feebly to 
my bed, from which I did not rise for months. 

They say now that I am mad ; but they are mistaken. 
I am poor, for I have neither the heart nor the will to 
work ; all my money is spent, and I live on charity. 
Young men's associations that love a joke invite me to 
lecture on Optics before them, for which they pay me, 
and laugh at me while I lecture. "Linley, the mad 
microscopist," is the name I go by. I suppose that I 
talk incoherently while I lecture. Who could talk sense 
when his brain is haunted by such ghastly memories, 
while ever and anon among the shapes of death I behold 
the radiant form of my lost Animula ! 



THE WONDERSMITH. 177 



THE WONDERSMITH. 



GOLOSH STREET AND ITS PEOPLE. 

A SMALL lane, the name of which I have forgotten, or 
do not choose to remember, slants suddenly off from 
Chatham Street, (before that headlong thoroughfare 
rushes into the Park,) and retreats suddenly down to- 
wards the East River, as if it were disgusted with the 
smell of old clothes, and had determined to wash itself 
clean. This excellent intention it has, however, evidently 
contributed towards the making of that imaginary pave- 
ment mentioned in the old adage ; for it is still emphati- 
cally a dirty street. It has never been able to shake off 
the Hebraic taint of filth which it inherits from the an- 
cestral thoroughfare. It is slushy and greasy, as if it 
were twin brother of the Roman Ghetto. 

I like a dirty slum ; not because I am naturally un- 
clean, — I have not a drop of Neapolitan blood in my 
veins, — but because I generally find a certain sediment 
of philosophy precipitated in its gutters. A clean street 
is terribly prosaic. There is no food for thought in care- 
fully swept pavements, barren kennels, and vulgarly spot- 
less houses. But when I go down a street which has 
been left so long to itself that it has acquired a distinct 
outward character, I find plenty to think about. The 
scraps of sodden letters lying in the ash-barrel have their 

12 



178 THE WONDERSMITH. 

meaning : desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the 
baker's assistant, to Ameha, the daughter of the dry-goods 
retailer, who is always selling at a sacrifice in consequence 
of the late fire. That may be Tom himself who is now 
passing me in a white apron, and I look up at the win- 
dows of the house (which does not, however, give any 
signs of a recent conflagration) and almost hope to see 
Amelia w^ave a white pocket-handkerchief. The bit of 
orange-peel lying on the sidewalk inspires thought. Who 
will fall over it 1 who but the industrious mother of six 
children, the youngest of which is only nine months old, 
all of whom are dependent on her exertions for support 1 
I see her slip and tumble. I see the pale face convulsed 
with agony, and the vain struggle to get up ; the pitying 
crowd closing her off from all air; the anxious young 
doctor who happened to be passing by ; the manipulation 
of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of 
the victim, the litter borne on men's shoulders, the gates 
of the New York Hospital unclosing, the subscription 
taken up on the spot. There is some food for speculation 
in that three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt, 
who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old, tat- 
tered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to per- 
ceive that he is destined to lurk, as it were, through life. 
His bad, flat face — or, at least, what can be seen of it — 
does not look as if it were made for the light of day. The 
mire in which he wallows now is but a type of the moral 
mire in which he will wallow hereafter. The feeble little 
hand lifted at this instant to smite his companion, half 
in earnest, half in jest, will be raised against his fellow- 
beings forevermore. 

Golosh Street — as I will call this nameless lane before 
alluded to — is an interesting locality. All the oddities 



THE WONDERSMITH. 179 

of trade seemed to have found their way thither and 
made an eccentric mercantile settlement. There is a 
bird-shop at one corner wainscoted with little cages con- 
taining linnets, waxwings, canaries, blackbirds, Mino- 
birds, with a hundred other varieties, known only to 
naturalists. Immediately opposite is an establishment 
where they sell nothing but ornaments made out of the 
tinted leaves of autumn, varnished and gummed into va- 
rious forms. Further down is a second-hand book-stall, 
which looks like a sentry-box mangled out flat, and which 
is remarkable for not containing a complete set of any 
work. There is a small chink between two ordinary-sized 
houses, in which a little Frenchman makes and sells arti- 
ficial eyes, specimens of which, ranged on a black velvet 
cushion, stare at you unwinkingly through the window 
as you pass, until you shudder and hurry on, thinking 
how awful the world would be if every one went about 
without eyelids. There are junk-shops in Golosh Street 
that seem to have got hold of all the old nails in the ark 
and all the old brass of -Corinth. Madame Filomel, the 
fortune-teller, lives at No. 12 Golosh Street, second story 
front, pull the bell on the left-hand side. Next door to 
Madame is the shop of Herr Hippe, commonly called the 
Wondersmith. 

Herr Hippo's shop is the largest in Golosh Street, and 
to all appearance is furnished with the smallest stock. 
Beyond a few packing-cases, a turner's lathe, and a shelf 
laden with dissected maps of Europe, the interior of the 
shop is entirely unfurnished. The window, which is lofty 
and wide, but much begrimed with dirt, contains the 
only pleasant object in the place. This is a beautiful 
little miniature theatre, — that is to say, the orchestra 
and stage. It is fittect with charmingly painted scenery 



180 THE WONDERSMITH. 

and all the appliances for scenic changes. There are tiny 
traps, and delicately constructed " Ufts," and real foot- 
lights fed with burning-fluid, and in the orchestra sits a di- 
minutive conductor before his desk, surrounded by musical 
manikins, all provided with the smallest of violoncellos, 
flutes, oboes, drums, and such like. There are characters 
also on the stage. A Templar in a white cloak is drag- 
ging a fainting female form ,to the parapet of a ruined 
bridge, while behind a great black rock on the left one 
can see a man concealed, who, kneeling, levels an arque- 
buse at the knight's heart. But the orchestra is silent ; 
the conductor never beats the time, the musicians never 
play a note ; the Templar never drags his victim an inch 
nearer to the bridge ; the masked avenger takes an eternal 
aim with his weapon. This repose appears unnatural; 
for so admirably are the figures executed that they seem 
replete with life. One is almost led to believe, in looking 
on them, that they are resting beneath some spell which 
hinders their motion. One expects every moment to 
hear the loud explosion of the arquebuse, — to see the 
blue smoke curling, the Templar falling, — to hear the or- 
chestra playing the requiem of the guilty. 

Few people knew what Herr Hippo's business or trade 
really was. That he worked at something was evident ; 
else why the shop 1 Some people inclined to the belief 
that he was an inventor, or mechanician. His workshop 
was in the rear of the store, and into that sanctuary no 
one but himself had admission. He amved in Golosh 
Street eight or ten years ago, and one fine morning, the 
neighbors, taking down their shutters, observed that 
No. 13 had got a tenant. A tall, thin, sallow-faced man 
stood on a ladder outside the shop entrance, nailing up a 
large board, on which " Herr Hippe, Wondersmith," was 



THE WONDERSMITH. 181 

painted in black letters on a yellow ground. The little 
theatre stood in the window, where it stood ever after, 
and Herr Hippe was established. 

But what was a Wondersmith ? people asked each 
other. No one could reply. Madame Filomel was con- 
sulted ; but she looked grave, and said that it was none 
of her business. Mr. Pippel, the bird-fancier, who was a 
German, and ought to know best, thought it was the 
English for some singular Teutonic profession ; but his 
replies were so vague that Golosh Street was as unsatis- 
fied as ever. Solon, the little humpback, who kept the 
odd-volume book-stall at the lowest corner, could throw 
no light upon it. And at length people had to come to 
the conclusion that Herr Hippe was either a coiner or a 
magician, and opinions were divided. 



II. 

A BOTTLEFUL OF SOULS. 

It was a dull December evening. There was little 
trade doing in Golosh Street, and the shutters were up at 
most of the shops. Hippe's store had been closed at 
least an hour, and the Mino-birds and Bohemian wax- 
wings at Mr. Pippel's had their heads tucked under their 
wings in their first sleep. 

Herr Hippe sat in his parlor, which was lit by a pleas- 
ant wood-fire. There were no candles in the room, and 
the flickering blaze played fantastic tricks on the pale 
gray walls. It seemed the festival of shadows. Pro- 
cessions of shapes, obscure and indistinct, passed across 
the leaden-hued panels and vanished in the dusk corners. 
Every fresh blaze flung up by the wayward logs created 



182 THE WONDERSMITH. 

new images. Now it was a funeral throng, with the 
bowed figures of mourners, the shrouded coffin, the 
plumes that waved like extinguished torches; now a 
knightly cavalcade with flags and lances, and weird 
horses, that rushed silently along until they met the 
angle of the room, when they pranced through the wall 
and vanished. 

On a table close to where Herr Hippe sat was placed 
a large square box of some, dark wood, while over it w^as 
spread a casing of steel, so elaborately wrought in an 
open arabesque pattern that it seemed like a shining 
blue lace which was lightly stretched over its surface. 

Herr Hippe lay luxuriously in his arm-chair, looking 
meditatively into the fire. He was tall and thin, and 
his skin was of a dull saffi'on hue. Long, straight hair, 
sharply cut, regular features, a loug, thin mustache, that 
curled like a dark asp around his mouth, the expres- 
sion of which was so bitter and cruel that it seemed to 
distil the venom of the ideal serpent, and a bony, mus- 
cular form, were the prominent characteristics of the 
Wondersmith. 

The profound silence that reigned in the chamber was 
broken by a peculiar scratching at the panel of the door, 
like that which at the French court was formerly substi- 
tuted for the ordinary knock, when it was necessary to 
demand admission to the royal apartments. Herr Hippe 
started, raised his head, which vibrated on his long neck 
like the head of a cobra when about to strike, and after 
a moment's silence uttered a strange guttural sound. 
The door unclosed, and a squat, broad-shouldered w^oman, 
with large, wild, oriental eyes, entered softly. 

'' Ah ! Filomel, you are come ! " said the Wondersmith, 
sinking back in his chair. " Where are the rest of them? " 



THE WONDERSMITH. 183 

" They will be here presently," answered Madame Filo- 
mel, seating herself in an arm-chair much too narrow for 
a person of her proportions, and over the sides of which 
she bulged like a pudding. 

" Have you brought the souls 1 " asked the Wonder- 
smith. 

" They are here," said the fortune-teller, drawing a 
large pot-bellied black bottle from under her cloak. "Ah ! 
I have had such trouble with them ! " 

" Are they of the right brand, — wild, tearing, dark, 
devilish fellows *? We want no essence of milk and honey, 
you know. None but souls bitter as hemlock or scorch- 
ing as lightning will suit our purpose." 

" You will see, you will see, Grand Duke of Egypt ! 
They are ethereal demons, every one of them. They are 
the pick of a thousand births. Do you think that I, old 
midwife that I am, don't know the squall of the demon 
child from that of the angel child, the very moment they 
are delivered^ Ask a musician how he knows, even in 
the dark, a note struck by Thalberg from one struck by 
Listz ! " 

" I long to test them," cried the Wondersmith, rubbing 
his hands joyfully. " I long to see how the little devils 
will behave when I give them their shapes. Ah ! it will 
be a proud day for us when we let them loose upon the 
cursed Christian children ! Through the length and 
breadth of the land they will go ; wherever our wander- 
ing people set foot, and wherever they are, the children 
of the Christians shall die. Then we, the despised Bo- 
hemians, the gypsies, as they call us, will be once more 
lords of the earth, as we were in the days when the ac- 
cursed things called cities did not exist, and men lived 
in the free woods and hunted the game of the forest. 



184 THE WONDERSMITH. 

Toys indeed ! Ay, ay, we will give the little dears toys ! 
toys that all day will sleep calmly in their boxes, seem- 
ingly stiff and wooden and without life, — but at night, 
when the souls enter them, will arise and surround the 
cots of the sleeping children, and pierce their hearts with 
their keen, envenomed blades ! Toys indeed ! 0, yes ! I 
will sell them toys ! " 

And the Wondersmith laughed horribly, while the 
snaky mustache on his upper lip writhed as if it had 
truly a serpent's power and could sting. 

"Have you got your first batch, Herr Hippe"?" asked 
Madame Filomel. " Are they all ready 1 " 

" 0, ay ! they are ready," answered the "Wondersmith 
with gusto, — opening, as he spoke, the box covered with 
the blue steel lace- work ; " they are here." 

The box contained a quantity of exquisitely carved 
wooden manikins of both sexes, painted with great dex- 
terity so as to present a miniature resemblance to nature. 
They were, in fact, nothing more than admirable speci- 
mens of those toys which children delight in placing in 
various positions on the table, — in regiments, or sitting 
at meals, or grouped under the stift' green trees which 
always accompany them in the boxes in which they are 
sold at the toy-shops. 

The peculiarity, however, about the manikins of Herr 
Hippe was not alone the artistic truth with which the 
limbs and the features were gifted ; but on the counte- 
nance of each little puppet the carver's art had wrought 
an expression of wickedness that was appalling. Every 
tiny face had its special stamp of ferocity. The lips were 
thin and brimful of malice; the small black bead-like 
eyes glittered with the fire of a universal hate. There 
was not one of the manikins, male or female, that did 



THE WONDERSMITH. 185 

not hold in his or her hand some miniature weapon. 
The little men, scowling like demons, clasped in their 
wooden fingers swords delicate as a housewife's needle. 
The women, whose countenances expressed treachery and 
cruelty, clutched infinitesimal daggers, with which they 
seemed about to take some terrible vengeance. 

" Good ! " said Madame Filomel, taking one of the 
manikins out of the box and examining it attentively; 
" you work well, Duke Balthazar ! These little ones are 
of the right stamp ; they look as if they had mischief in 
them. Ah ! here come our brothers." 

At this moment the same scratching that preceded the 
entrance of Madame Filomel was heard at the door, and 
Herr Hippe replied with a hoarse, guttural cry. The 
next moment two men entered. The first was a small 
man with very brilliant eyes. He was wrapt in a long 
shabby cloak, and wore a strange nondescript species of 
cap on his head, such a cap as one sees only in the low 
billiard-rooms in Paris. His companion was tall, long- 
limbed, and slender ; and his dress, although of the ordi- 
nary cut, either from the disposition of colors, or from 
the careless, graceful attitudes of the wearer, assumed a 
certain air of picturesqueness. Both the men possessed 
the same marked oriental type of countenance which 
distinguished the Wondersmith and Madame Filomel. 
True gypsies they seemed, who would not have been out 
of place telling fortunes, or stealing chickens in the green 
lanes of England, or wandering with their wild music and 
their sleight-of-hand tricks through Bohemian villages. 

*' Welcome, brothers ! " said the Wondersmith ; " you 
are in time. Sister Filomel has brought the souls, and 
we are about to test them. Monsieur Kerplonne, take off 
your cloak. Brother Oaksmith, take a chair. I promise 



186 THE WONDERSMITH. 

you some amusement this evening; so make yourselves 
comfortable. Here is something to aid you." 

And while the Frenchman Kerplonne, and his tall com- 
panion, Oaksmith, were obeying Hippe's invitation, he 
reached over to a little closet let into the wall, and took 
thence a squat bottle and some glasses, which he placed 
on the table. 

" Drink, brothers ! " he said ; " it is not Christian blood, 
but good stout wine of Oporto. It goes right to the heart, 
and warms one like the sunshine of the soath." 

*' It is good," said Kerplonne, smacking his lips with 
enthusiasm. 

" Why don't you keep brandy 1 Hang wine ! " cried 
Oaksmith, after having swallowed two bumpers in rapid 
succession. 

" Bah ! Brandy has been the ruin of our race. It has 
made us sots and thieves. It shall never cross my thresh- 
old," cried the Wondersmith, with a sombre indignation. 

" A little of it is not bad, though, Duke," said the 
fortune-teller. "It consoles us for oar misfortunes; it 
gives us the crowns we once wore ; it restores to us the 
power we once wielded ; it carries us back, as if by magic, 
to that land of the sun from which fate has driven us; it 
darkens the memory of all the evils that we have for 
centuries suffered." 

" It is a devil ; may it be cursed ! " cried Herr Hippe, 
passionately. " It is a demon that stole from me my 
son, the finest youth in all Courland. Yes ! my son, the 
son of the Waywode Balthazar, Grand Duke of Lower 
Egypt, died raving in a gutter, with an empty brandy- 
bottle in his hands. Were it not that the plant is a 
sacred one to our race, I would curse the grape and the 
vine that bore it." 



THE WONDERSMITH. 187 

This outburst was delivered with such energy that the 
three gypsies kept silence. Oaksmith helped himself to 
another glass of port, and the fortune-teller rocked to and 
fro in her chair, too much overawed by the Wondersmith's 
vehemence of manner to reply. The little Frenchman, 
Kerplonne, took no part in the discussion, but seemed 
lost in admiration of the manikins, which he took from 
the box in which they lay, handling them with the great- 
est care. 

After the silence had lasted for about a minute, Herr 
Hippe broke it with the sudden question, " How does 
your eye get on, Kerplonne ]" 

" Excellently, Duke. It is finished. I have it here." 
And the little Frenchman put his hand into his breeches 
pocket and pulled out a large artificial human eye. Its 
great size was the only thing in this eye that would lead 
any one to suspect hs artificiality. It was at least twice 
the size of life ; but there was a fearful speculative light 
in its iris, which seemed to expand and contract like the 
eye of a living being, that rendered it a horrible staring 
paradox. It looked like the naked eye of the Cyclops, 
torn from his forehead, and still burning with wrath and 
the desire for vengeance. 

The little Frenchman laughed pleasantly as he held the 
eye in his hand, and gazed down on that huge, dark pupil, 
that stared back at him, it seemed, with an air of defiance 
and mistrust. 

" It is a devil of an eye," said the little man, wiping 
the enamelled surface with an old silk pocket-handkerchief; 
" it reads like a demon. My niece — the unhappy one — 
has a wretch of a lover, and I have a long time feared 
that she would run away with him. I could not read her 
correspondence, for she kept her writing-desk closely 



188 THE WONDERSMITH. 

locked. Bat I asked her yesterday to keep this eye in 
some very safe place for me. She put it, as I knew she 
would, into her desk, and by its aid I read every one of 
her letters. She was to run away next Monday, the un- 
grateful ! but she will find herself disappointed." 

And the little man laughed heartily at the success of 
his stratagem, and polished and fondled the great eye 
until that optic seemed to grow sore with rubbing. 

"And you have been at work, too, I see, Herr Hippe. 
Your manikins are excellent. But where are the souls 1 " 

" In that bottle," answered the Wondersmith, pointing 
to the pot-bellied black bottle that Madame Filomel had 
brought with her. "Yes, Monsieur Kerplonne," he con- 
tinued, "my manikins are well made. I invoked the aid 
of Abigor, the demon of soldiery, and he inspired me. 
The little fellows will be famous assassins when they are 
animated. We will try them to-night." 

" Good ! " cried Kerplonne, rubbing his hands joyously. 
" It is close upon New Year's day. We will fabricate 
millions of the little murderers by New Year's eve, and 
sell them in large quantities ; and when the households 
are all asleep, and the Christian children are waiting for 
Santa Claus to come, the small ones will troop from their 
boxes, and the Christian children will die. It is famous ! 
Health to Abigor ! " 

" Let us try them at once," said Oaksmith. " Is your 
daughter, Zonela, in bed, Herr Hippe *? Are we secure 
from intrusion ] " 

"No one is stirring about the house," replied the Won- 
dersmith, gloomily. 

Filomel leaned over to Oaksmith, and said in an under- 
tone, " Why do you mention his daughter 1 You know 
he does not like to have her spoken about." 



THE WONDERSMITH. 189 

" I will take care that we are not disturbed," said Ker- 
plonne, rising. " I will put my eye outside the door, to 
watch." 

He w^ent to the door and placed his great eye upon the 
floor with tender care. As he did so, a dark form, unseen 
by him or his second vision, glided along the passage 
noiselessly, and was lost in the darkness. 

" Now for it ! " exclaimed Madame Filomel, taking up 
her fat black bottle. " Herr Hippe, prepare your mani- 
kins ! " 

The "Wondersmith took the little dolls out, one by one, 
and set them upon the table. Such an array of villanous 
countenances was never seen. An army of Italian bravoes, 
seen through the wrong end of a telescope, or a band of 
prisoners at the galleys in Liliput, will give some faint 
idea of the appearance they presented. While Madame 
Filomel uncorked the black bottle, Herr Ilippe covered 
the dolls with a species of linen tent, which he took also 
from the box. This done, the fortune-teller held the 
mouth of the bottle to the door of the tent, gathering 
the loose cloth closely round the glass neck. Immediately 
tiny noises were heard inside the tent. Madame Filomel 
removed the bottle, and the Wondersmith lifted the 
covering in which he had enveloped his little people. 

A wonderful transformation had taken place. Wooden 
and inflexible no longer, the crowd of manikins were now 
in full motioi*. The bead-like eyes turned, glittering, on 
all sides ; the thin, wicked lips quivered with bad passions ; 
the tiny hands sheathed and unsheathed the little swords 
and daggers. Episodes, common to life, were taking 
place in every direction. Here two martial manikins 
paid court to a pretty, sly-faced female, who smiled on 
each alternately, but gave her hand to be kissed to a 



190 • THE WONDERSMITH. 

third manikin, an ugly little scoundrel, who crouched be- 
hind her. There a pair of friendly dolls walked arm in 
arm, apparently on the best terms, while, all the time, 
one was watching his opportunity to stab the other in 
the back. 

" I think they '11 do," said the Wondersmith, chuckling 
as he watched these various incidents. " Treacherous, 
cruel, bloodthirsty. All goes marvellously well. But 
stay ! I will put the grand test to them." 

So saying, he drew a gold dollar from his pocket, and 
let it fall on the table, in the very midst of the throng of 
manikins. It had hardly touched the table when there 
was a pause on all sides. Every head was turned towards 
the dollar. Then about twenty of the little creatures 
rushed towards the glittering coin. One, fleeter than the 
rest, leaped upon it and drew his sword. The entire 
crowd of little people had now gathered round this new 
centre of attraction. Men and women struggled and 
shoved to get nearer to the piece of gold. Hardly had 
the first Liliputian mounted upon the treasure, when a 
hundred blades flashed back a defiant answer to his, and 
a dozen men, sword in hand, leaped upon the yellow plat- 
form and drove him off" at the sword's point. Then com- 
menced a general battle. The miniature faces were con- 
vulsed with rage and avarice. Each furious doll tried to 
plunge dagger or sword into his or her neighbor, and the 
women seemed possessed by a thousand devils. 

" They will break themselves into atoms," cried Filo- 
mel, as she watched with eagerness this savage melee. 
"You had better gather them up, Herr Hippe. I will 
exhaust my bottle and suck all the souls back from 
them." 

" 0, they are perfect devils ! they are magnificent 



• THE WONDERSMITH. 191 

little demons ! " cried the Frenchman, with enthusiasm. 
"Hippe, you are a wonderful man. Brother Oaksmith, 
you have no such man as Hippe among your English 
gypsies." 

"Not exactly," answered Oaksmith, rather sullenly, 
" not exactly. But we have men there who can make a 
twelve-year-old horse look like a four-year-old, — and who 
can take you and Herr Hippe up with one hand, and 
throw you over their shoulders." 

"The good God forbid!" said the little Frenchman. 
" I do not love such play. It is incommodious." 

While Oaksmith and Kerplonne were talking, the Won- 
dersmith had placed the linen tent over the struggling 
dolls, and Madame Filomel, who had been performing 
some mysterious manipulations with her black bottle, put 
the mouth once more to the door of the tent. In an 
instant the confused murmur within ceased. Madame 
Filomel corked the bottle quickly. The Wondersmith 
withdrew -the tent, and, lo! the furious dolls were once 
more wooden-jointed> and inflexible; and the old sinister 
look was again frozen on their faces. 

"They must have blood, though," said Herr Hippe, as 
he gathered them up and put them into their box. " Mr. 
Pippel, the bird-fancier, is asleep. I have a key that 
opens his door. We will let them loose among the birds ; 
it will be rare fun." 

" Magnificent ! " cried Kerplonne. " Let us go on the 
instant. But first let me gather up my eye." 

The Frenchman pocketed his eye, after having given it 
a polish with the silk handkerchief; Herr Hippe extin- 
guished the lamp ; Oaksmith took a last bumper of port ; 
and the four gypsies departed for Mr. Pippel's, carrying 
the box of manikins with them. 



192 THE WONDERSMITH. 

III. 

SOLON. 

The shadow that glided along the dark corridor, at the 
moment that Monsieur Kerplonne deposited his sentinel 
eye outside the door of the Wondersmith's apartment, 
sped swiftly through the passage and ascended the stairs 
to the attic. Here the shadow stopped at the entrance 
to one of the chambers and knocked at the door. There 
was no reply. 

" Zonela, are you asleep 1 " said the shadow, softly. 

*' 0, Solon, is it you 1 " replied a sweet low voice from 
within. "I thought it was Herr Hippe. Come in.' 

The shadow opened the door and entered. There were 
neither candles nor lamp in the room ; but through the 
projecting window, which was open, there came the faint 
gleams of the starlight, by which one could distinguish a 
female figure seated on a low stool in the middle of the 
floor. 

" Has he left you without light again, Zonela ? " asked 
the shadow, closing the door of the apartment. " I have 
brought my little lantern with me, though." 

" Thank you, Solon," answered she called Zonela ; " you 
are a good fellow. He never gives me any light of an 
evening, but bids me go to bed. 1 like to sit sometimes 
and look at the moon and the stars, — the stars more 
than all ; for they seem all the time to look right back 
into my face, very sadly, as if they would say, * We see 
you, and pity you, and would help you, if we could.' But 
it is so mournful to be always looking at such myriads of 
melancholy eyes ! and I long so to read those nice books 
that you lend me, Solon ! " 



THE WONDERSMITH. 193 

By this time the shadow had lit the lantern and was a 
shadow no longer. A large head, covered with a jjrofu- 
sion of long blonde hair, which was cut after that fashion 
known as a Venfants cVEdoiiard ; a beautiful pale face, lit 
with wide, blue, dreamy eyes; long arms and slender 
hands, attenuated legs, and — an enormous hump ; — 
such was Solon, the shadow. As soon as the humpback 
had lit the lamp, Zonela arose from the low stool on 
which she had been seated, and took Solon's hand affec- 
tionately in hers. 

Zonela was surely not of gypsy Wood. That rich au- 
burn hair, that looked almost black in the lamp-light, 
that pale, transparent skin, tinged with an under-glow of 
warm rich blood, the hazel eyes, large and soft as those 
of a fawn, were never begotten of a Zingaro. Zonela was 
seemingly about sixteen ; her figure, although somewhat 
thin and angular, was full of the unconscious grace of 
youth. She was dressed in an old cotton print, which 
had been once of an exceedingly boisterous pattern, but 
was now a mere suggestion of former splendor ; while 
round her head was twisted, in fantastic fashion, a silk 
handkerchief of green ground spotted with bright crimson. 
This strange head-dress gave her an elfish appearance. 

" I have been out all day with the organ, and I am so 
tired, Solon ! — not sleepy, but weary, I mean. Poor 
Furbelow was sleepy, though, and he 's gone to bed." 

" I 'm weary, too, Zonela ; — not weary as you are, 
though, for I sit in my little book-stall all day long, and 
do not drag round an organ and a monkey and jDlay old 
tunes for pennies, — but w-eary of myself, of life, of the 
load that I carry on my shoulders " ; and, as he said this, 
the poor humpback glanced sideways, as if to call atten- 
tion to his deformed person. 

13 



194 THE WONDERSMITH. 

"Well, but you ought not to be melancholy amidst 
your books, Solon. Gracious ! If I could only sit in the 
sun and read as you do, how happy I should be ! But 
it 's very tiresome to trudge round all day with that nasty 
organ, and look up at the houses, and know that you are 
annoying the people inside ; and then the boys play such 
bad tricks on poor Furbelow, throwing him hot pennies 
to pick up, and burning his poor little hands ; and oh ! 
sometimes, Solon, the men in the street make me so 
afraid, — they speak to me and look at me so oddly ! — 
I 'd a great deal rather sit in your book-stall and read." 

"I have nothing but odd volumes in my stall," an- 
swered the humpback. " Perhaps that 's right, though ; 
for, after all, I 'm nothing but an odd volume myself." 

" Come, don't be melancholy, Solon. Sit down and tell 
me a story, I '11 bring Furbelow to listen." 

So saying, she went to a dusk corner of the cheerless 
attic room, and returned with a little Brazilian monkey 
in her arms, — a poor, mild, drowsy thing, that looked 
as if it had cried itself to sleep. She sat down on her 
little stool, with Furbelow in her lap, and nodded her 
head to Solon, as much as to say, " Go on ; we are at- 
tentive." 

" You want a story, do you 1 " said the humpback, with 
a mournful smile. " Well, I '11 tell you one. Only what 
will your father say, if he catches me here 1 " 

" Herr Hippe is not my father," cried Zonela, indig- 
nantly. " He 's a gypsy, and I know I 'm stolen ; and 
I 'd run away from him, if I only knew where to run to. 
If I were his child, do you think that he would treat me 
as he does 1 make me trudge round the city, all day long, 
with a barrel-organ and a monkey, — though I love poor, 
dear little Furbelow, — and keep me up in a garret, and 



THE WONDERSMITH. 195 

give me ever so little to eat 1 I know I 'm not his child, 
for he hates me." 

"Listen to my story, Zonela, and we'll talk of that 
afterwards. Let me sit at your feet"; — and, having 
coiled himself up at the little maiden's feet, he com- 
menced : — 

" There once lived in a great city, just like this city of 
New York, a poor little hunchback. He kept a second- 
hand book-stall, where he made barely enough money to 
keep body and soul together. He was very sad at times, 
because he knew scarce any one, and those that he did 
know did not love him. He had passed a sickly, secluded 
youth. The children of his neighborhood would not play 
with him, for he was not made like them ; and the people 
in the streets stared at him with pity, or scoffed at him 
when he went by. Ah ! Zonela, how his poor heart was 
wrung with bitterness when he beheld the procession of 
shapely men and fine women that every day passed him 
by in the thoroughfares of the great city ! How he re- 
pined and cursed his fate as the torrent of fleet-footed 
firemen dashed past him to the toll of the bells, magnifi- 
cent in their overflowing vitality and strength! But 
there was one consolation left him, — one drop of honey 
in the jar of gall, so sweet that it ameliorated all the bit- 
terness of life. God had given him a deformed body, but 
his mind was straight and healthy. So the poor hunch- 
back shut himself into the world of books, and was, if not 
happy, at least contented. He kept company with cour- 
teous paladins, and romantic heroes, and beautiful women ; 
and this society was of such excellent breeding that it 
never so much as once noticed his poor crooked back or 
his lame walk. The love of books grew upon him with 
his years. He was remarked for his studious habits; 



196 THE WONDERSMITH. 

and when, one da}^ the obscure people that he called 
father and mother — parents only in nanrie — died, a 
compassionate book-vender gave him enough stock in 
trade to set up a little stall of his own. Here, in his 
book-stall, he sat in the sun all day, waiting for the cus- 
tomers that seldom came, and reading the fine deeds of 
the people of the ancient time, or the beautiful thoughts 
of the poets that had warmed millions of hearts before 
that hour, and still glowed for him with undiminished 
fire. One day, when he was reading some book, that, 
small as it was, was big enough to shut the whole world 
out from him, he heard some music in the street. Look- 
ing up from his book, he saw a little girl, with large eyes, 
playing an organ, while a monkey begged for alms from a 
crowd of idlers who had nothing in their pockets but 
their hands. The girl was playing, but she was also 
weeping. The merry notes of the polka were ground out 
to a silent accompaniment of tears. She looked very sad, 
this organ-girl, and her monkey seemed to have caught 
the infection, for his large brown eyes were moist, as if he 
also wept. The poor hunchback was struck with pity, 
and called the little girl over to give her a penny, — not, 
dear Zonela, because he wished to bestow alms, but be- 
cause he wanted to speak with her. She came, and they 
talked together. She came the next day, — for it turned 
out that they were neighbors, — and the next, and, in 
short, every day. They became friends. They were both 
lonely and afflicted, with this difference, that she was 
beautiful, and he — was a hunchback." 

" Why, Solon," cried Zonela, " that 's the very way you 
and I met ! " 

" It was then," continued Solon, with a faint smile, 
" that life seemed to have its music. A great harmony 



THE WONDERSMITH. 197 

seemed to the poor cripple to fill the world. The carts 
that took the flour-barrels from the wharves to the store- 
houses seemed to emit joyous melodies from their wheels. 
The hum of the great business streets sounded like grand 
symphonies of triumph. As one who has been travelling 
through a barren country without much heed feels with 
singular force the sterility of the lands he has passed 
through when he reaches the fertile plains that lie at the 
end of his journey, so the humpback, after his vision had 
been freshened with this blooming flower, remembered for 
the first time the misery of the life that he had led. But 
he did not allow himself to dwell upon the past. The 
present was so delightful that it occupied all his thoughts. 
Zonela, he was in love with the organ-girl." 

" 0, that 's so nice ! " said Zonela, innocently, — pinch- 
ing poor Furbelow, as she spoke, in order to dispel a very 
evident snooze that was creeping over him. " It 's going 
to be a love-story." 

" Ah ! but, Zonela, he did not know whether she loved 
him in return. You forget that he was deformed." 
" But," answered the girl gravely, " he was good." 
A light like the flash of an aurora illuminated Solon's 
face for an instant. He put out his hand suddenly, as if 
to take Zonela's and press it to his heart ; but an unac- 
countable timidity seemed to arrest the impulse, and he 
only stroked Furbelow's head, — upon which that indi- 
vidual opened one large brown eye to the extent of the 
eighth of an inch, and, seeing that it was only Solon, in- 
stantly closed it again, and resumed his dream of a city 
where there were no organs and all the copper coin of the 
realm was iced. 

" He hoped and feared," continued Solon, in a low, 
mournful voice ; "but at times he was very miserable, 



198 THE WONDERSMITH. 

because he did not think it possible that so much happi- 
ness was reserved for him as the love of this beautiful, 
innocent girl. At night, when he was in bed, and all the 
world was dreaming, he lay awake looking up at the old 
books against the walls, thinking how he could bring 
about the charming of her heart. One night, when he 
was thinking of this, with his eyes fixed upon the mouldy 
backs of the odd volumes that lay on their shelves, and 
looked back at him wistfully, as if they would say, ' We 
also are like you, and wait to be completed,' it seemed 
as if he heard a rustle of leaves. Then, one b}^ one, the 
books came down from their places to the floor, as if 
shifted by invisible hands, opened their worm-eaten cov- 
ers, and from between the pages of each the hunchback 
saw issue forth a curious throng of little people that 
danced here and there through the apartment. Each one 
of these little creatures was shaped so as to bear resem- 
blance to. some one of the letters of the alphabet. One 
tall, long-legged fellow seemed like the letter A ; a burly 
fellow, with a big head and a paunch, was the model of 
B ; another leering little chap might have passed for a Q ; 
and so on through the whole. These fairies — for fairies 
they were — climbed upon the hunchback's bed, and 
clustered thick as bees upon his pillow. * Come ! ' they 
cried to him, * we will lead you into fairy-land.' So say- 
ing, they seized his hand, and he suddenly found himself 
in a beautiful country, where the light did not come from 
sun or moon or stars, but floated round and over and in 
everything like the atmosphere. On all sides he heard 
mysterious melodies sung by strangely musical voices. 
None of the features of the landscape was definite ; yet 
when he looked on the vague harmonies of color that 
melted one into another before his sight he was filled 



THE WONDERSMITH. 199 

with a sense of inexplicable beauty. On every side of 
him flattered radiant bodies, which darted to and fro 
through the illumined space. They were not birds, yet 
they flew like birds ; and as each one crossed the path of 
his vision he felt a strange delight flash through his brain, 
and straightway an interior voice seemed to sing beneath 
the vaulted dome of his temples a verse containing some 
beautiful thought. The little fairies were all this time 
dancing and fluttering around him, perching on his head, 
on his shoulders, or balancing themselves on his finger- 
tips. * Where am I T he asked, at last, of his friends, the 
fairies. * Ah, Solon ! ' he heard them whisper, in tones 
that sounded like the distant tinkliug of silver bells, 
* this land is nameless ; but those whom we lead hither, 
who tread its soil, and breathe its air, and gaze on its 
floating sparks of light, are poets forevermore.' Having 
said this, they vanished, and with them the beautiful in- 
definite land, and the flashing lights, and the illumined 
air ; and the hunchback found himself again in bed, with 
the moonlight quivering on the floor, and the dusty books 
on their shelves, grim and mouldy as ever." 

" You have betrayed yourself You called yourself 
Solon," cried Zonela. " Was it a dream 1 " 

"I do not know," answered Solon; "but since that 
night I have been a poet." 

"A poef?" screamed the little organ girl, — "a real 
poet, who makes verses which every one reads and every 
one talks of 1 " 

"The people call me a poet," answered Solon, with a 
sad smile. " They do not know me by the name of So- 
lon, for I write under an assumed title ; but they praise 
me, and repeat my songs. But, Zonela, I can't sing this 
load ofi" of my back, can 11" 



200 THE WONDERSMITH. 

" 0, bother the hump ! " said Zonula, jumping up 
suddenly. "You 're a poet, and that 's enough, is n't it 1 
I 'm so glad you 're a poet, Solon ! You must repeat all 
your best things to me, won't you 1 " 

Solon nodded assent. 

" You don't ask me," he said, " who was the little girl 
that the hunchback loved." 

Zonela's face flushed crimson. She turned suddenly 
away, and ran into a dark corner of the room. In a mo- 
ment she returned with an old hand-organ in her arms. 

*' Play, Solon, play!" she cried. "I am so glad that 
I want to dance. Furbelow, come and dance in honor of 
Solon the Poet." 

It was her confession. Solon's eyes flamed, as if his 
brain had suddenly ignited. He said nothing ; but a tri- 
umphant smile broke over his countenance. Zonela, the 
twilight of whose cheeks was still rosy with the setting 
blush, caught the lazy Furbelow by his little paws ; Solon 
turned the crank of the organ, which wheezed out as 
merry a polka as its asthma would allow, and the girl 
and the monkey commenced their fantastic dance. They 
had taken but a few steps when the door suddenly opened, 
and the tall figure of the Wondersmith appeared on the 
threshold. His face was convulsed with rage, and the 
black snake that quivered on his upper lip seemed to 
rear itself as if about to spring upon the hunchback. 



IV. 

THE MANIKINS AND THE MINOS. 

The four gypsies left Herr Hippe's house cautiously, 
and directed their steps towards Mr. Pippel's bird-shop. 



THE WONDERSMITH. 201 

Golosh Street was asleep. Nothing was stirring in that 
tenebrous slum, save a dog that savagely gnawed a bone 
which lay on a dust-heap, tantalizing him with the flavor 
of food without its substance. As the gypsies moved 
stealthily along in the darkness they had a sinister and 
murderous air that would not have fiiiled to attract the 
attention of the policeman of the quarter, if that worthy 
had not at the moment been comfortably ensconced in 
the neighboring " Rainbow " bar-room, listening to the 
improvisations of that talented vocalist, Mr. Harrison, 
who was making impromptu verses on every possible sub- 
ject, to the accompaniment of a cithern which was played 
by a sad little Italian in a large cloak, to whom the host 
of the " Rainbow " gave so many toddies and a dollar for 
his nightly performance. 

Mr. Pippel's shop was but a short distance from the 
Wondersmith's house. A few moments, therefore, brought 
the gypsy party to the door, when, by the aid of a key 
which Herr Hippe produced, they silently slipped into 
the entry. Here the Wondersmith took a dark-lantern 
from under his cloak, removed the cap that shrouded the 
light, and led the way into the shop, which was separated 
from the entry only by a glass door, that yielded, like the 
outer one, to a key which Hippe took from his pocket. 
The four gypsies now entered the shop and closed the 
door behind them. 

It was a little world of birds. On every side, whether 
in large or small cages, one beheld balls of various-colored 
feathers standing on one leg and breathing peacefully. 
Love-birds, nestling shoulder to shoulder, with their heads 
tucked under their wings and all their feathers puffed 
out, so that they looked like globes of malachite ; English 
bullfinches, with ashen-colored backs, in which their black 



202 THE WONDERSMITH. 

heads were buried, and corselets of a rosy down; Java 
sparrows, fat and sleek and cleanly; troupials, so glossy 
and splendid in plumage that they looked as if they were 
dressed in the celebrated armor of the Black Prince, 
which was jet, richly damascened with gold ; a cock of 
the rock, gleaming, a ball of tawny fire, like a setting 
sun; the camjDanero of Brazil, white as snow, with his 
dilatable tolling-tube hanging from his head, placid and 
silent; — these, with a humbler crowd of linnets, canaries, 
robins, mocking-birds, and phcebes, slumbered calmly in 
their little cages, that were hung so thickly on the wall 
as not to leave an inch of it visible. 

" Splendid little morsels, all of them ! " exclaimed Mon- 
sieur Kerplonne. " Ah, we are going to have a rare beat- 
ing ! " 

" So Pippel does not sleep in his shop," said the Eng- 
lish gypsy, Oaksmith. 

" No. The fellow lives somewhere up one of the ave- 
nues," answered Madame Filomel. " He came, the other 
evening, to consult me about his fortune. I did not tell 
him," she added with a laugh, *' that he was going to 
have so distinguished a sporting party on his premises." 

*' Come," said the Wondersmith, producing the box of 
manikins, "get ready with souls, Madame Filomel. I am 
impatient to see my little men letting out lives for the 
first time. Just at the moment that the Wondersmith 
uttered this sentence, the four gypsies were startled by a 
hoarse voice issuing from a corner of the room, and pro- 
pounding in the most guttural tones the intemperate 
query of " What '11 you take?" This sottish invitation 
had scarce been given, when a second extremely thick 
voice replied from an opposite corner, in accents so rough 
that they seemed to issue from a throat torn and fur- 



THE WONDERSMITH. 203 

rowed by the liquid lava of many bar-rooms, "Brandy 
and water." 

" Hollo ! who 's here 1 " muttered Herr Hippe, flashing 
the light of his lantern round the shop. 

Oaksmith turned up his coat-cuffs, as if to be ready 
for a fight; Madame Filomel glided, or rather rolled, 
towards the door ; while Kerplonne put his hand into his 
pocket, as if to assure himself that his supernumerary 
optic was all right. 

" What '11 you take ? " croaked the voice in the corner, 
once more. 

*' Brandy and water," rapidly replied the second voice 
in the other corner. And then, as if by a concerted move- 
ment, a series of bibular invitations and acceptances were 
rolled backwards and forwards with a volubility of utter- 
ance that threw Patter versus Clatter into the shade. 

" What the devil can it be 1 " muttered the Wonder- 
smith, flashing his lantern here and there. "Ah! it is 
those Minos." 

So saying, he stopped under one of the wicker cages 
that hung high up on the wall, and raised the lantern 
above his head, so as to throw the light upon that par- 
ticular cage. The hospitable individual who had been 
extending all these hoarse invitations to partake of intox- 
icating beverages was an inhabitant of the cage. It was 
a large Mino-bird, who now stood perched on his cross- 
bar, with his yellowish-orange bill sloped slightly over 
his shoulder, and his white eye cocked knowingly upon 
the Wondersmith. The respondent voice in the other 
corner came from another Mino-bird, who sat in the dusk 
in a similar cage, also attentively watching the Wonder- 
smith. These Mino-birds have a singular aptitude for 
acquiring phrases. 



204 THE WONDERSMITH. 

" What '11 you take !" repeated the Mino, cocking his 
other eye upon Herr Hippe. 

"i/b?i Dieu! what a bird !" exclaimed the little French- 
man. " He is, in truth, polite." 

" I don't know what I '11 take," said Hippe, as if replying 
to the Mino-bird ; " but I know what you '11 get, old fellow ! 
Filomel, open the cage-doors, and give me the bottle." 

Filomel opened, one after another, the doors of the 
numberless little cages, thereby arousing from slumber 
their feathered occupants, who opened their beaks, and 
stretched their claws, and stared with great surprise at 
the lantern and the midnight visitors. 

By this time the Wondersmith had performed the mys- 
terious manipulations with the bottle, and the manikins 
were once more in full motion, swarming oilt of their box, 
sword and dagger in hand, with their little black eyes 
glittering fiercely, and their white teeth shining. The lit- 
tle creatures seemed to scent their prey. The gypsies 
stood in the centre of the shop, watching the proceedings 
eagerly, while the Liliputians made in a body towards the 
wall and commenced climbing from cage to cage. Then 
was heard a tremendous fluttering of wings, and faint, 
despairing "quirks" echoed on all sides. In almost every 
cage there was a fierce manikin thrusting his sword or 
dagger vigorously into the body of some unhappy bird. 
It recalled the antique legend of the battles of the Pyg- 
mies and the Cranes. The poor love-birds lay with 
their emerald feathers dabbled in their heart's blood, 
shoulder to shoulder in death as in life. Canaries gasped 
at the bottom of their cages, while the water in their 
little glass fountains ran red. The bullfinches wore 
an unnatural crimson on their breasts. The mocking- 
bird lay on his back, kicking spasmodically, in the last 



THE WONDERSMITH. 205 

agonies, with a tiny sword-thrust cleaving his melodious 
throat in twain, so that from the instrument which used 
to gush with wondrous music only scarlet drops of blood 
now trickled. The manikins were ruthless. Their faces 
were ten times wickeder than ever, as they roamed from 
cage to cage, slaughtering with a fury that seemed en- 
tirely unappeasable. Presently the feathery rustlings 
became fewer and fainter, and the little pipings of de- 
spair died away ; and in every cage lay a poor murdered 
minstrel, with the song that abode within him forever 
quenched ; — in every cage but two, and those two were 
high up on the wall ; and in each glared a pair of wild, 
white eyes ; and an orange beak, tough as steel, pointed 
threateningly down. With the needles which they 
grasped as swords all wet and warm with blood, and 
their beadlike eyes flashing in the light of the lantern, 
the Liliputian assassins swarmed up the cages in two 
separate bodies, until they reached the wickets of the 
habitations in which the Minos abode. Mino saw them 
coming, — had listened attentively to the many death- 
struggles of his comrades, and had, in fact, smelt a rat. 
Accordingly he was ready for the manikins. There he 
stood at the barbican of his castle, with formidable beak 
couched like a lance. The manikins made a gallant 
charge. ** What '11 you take 1 '' was rattled out by the 
Mino, in a deep bass, as with one plunge of his sharp bill 
he scattered the ranks of the enemy, and sent three of 
them flying to the floor, where they lay with broken 
limbs. But the manikins were brave automata, and again 
they closed and charged the gallant Mino. Again the 
wicked white eyes of the bird gleamed, and again the or- 
ange bill dealt destruction. Everything seemed to be 
going on swimmingly for Mino, when he found himself 



206 THE WONDERSMITH. 

attacked in the rear by two treacherous manikins, who 
had stolen upon him from behind, through the lattice- 
work of the cage. Quick as lightning the Mino turned 
to repel this assault, but all too late ; two slender, quiv- 
ering threads of steel crossed in his poor body, and he 
staggered into a corner of the cage. His white eyes 
closed, then opened ; a shiver passed over his body, be- 
ginning at his shoulder-tips and dying off in the extreme 
tips of the wings ; he gasped as if for air, and then, with 
a convulsive shudder, which ruffled all his feathers, croaked 
out feebly his little speech, " What '11 you take 1 " In- 
stantly from the opposite corner came the old response, 
still feebler than the question, — a mere gurgle, as it 
were, of " Brandy and water." Then all was silent. The 
Mino-birds were dead. 

" They spill blood like Christians," said the Wonder- 
smith, gazing fondly on the manikins. " They will be 
famous assassins." 



TIED UP. 

Herr Hippe stood in the doorway, scowling. His eyes 
seemed to scorch the poor hunchback, whose form, physi- 
cally inferior, crouched before that baneful, blazing glance, 
while its head, mentally brave, reared itself as if to re- 
deem the cowardice of the frame to which it belonged. 
So the attitude of the serpent : the body pliant, yielding, 
supple ; but the crest thrown aloft, erect, and threaten- 
ing. As for Zonela, she was frozen in the attitude of 
motion ; — a dancing nymph in colored marble ; agility 
stunned ; elasticity petrified. 



THE WONDERSMITH. 207 

Furbelow, astonished at this sudden change, and catch- 
ing, with all the mysterious rapidity of instinct peculiar 
to the lower animals, at the enigmatical character of the 
situation, turned his pleading, melancholy eyes from one 
to another of the motionless three, as if begging that his 
humble intellect (pardon me, naturalists, for the use of 
this word " intellect " in the matter of a monkey !) should 
be enlightened as speedily as possible. Not receiving 
the desired information, he, after the manner of trained 
animals, returned to his muttons ; in other words, he 
conceived that this unusual entrance, and consequent dra- 
matic tableau, meant "shop." He therefore dropped Zo- 
nela's hand, and pattered on his velvety little feet over 
towards the grim figure of the Wondersmith, holding out 
his poor little paw for the customary copper. He had 
but one idea drilled into him, — soulless creature that he 
was, — and that was alms. But I have seen creatures 
that professed to have souls, and that would have been 
indignant if you had denied them immortality, who took 
to the soliciting of alms as naturally as if beggary had 
been the original sin, and was regularly born with them, 
and never baptized out of them. I will give these Ban- 
dits of the Order of Charity this credit, however, that 
they knew the best highways and the richest founts of 
benevolence, — unlike to Furbelow, who, unreasoning and 
undiscriminating, begged from the first person that was 
near. Furbelow, owing to this intellectual inferiority to 
the before-mentioned Alsatians, frequently got more kicks 
than coppers, and the present supplication which he in- 
dulged in towards the Wondersmith was a terrible con- 
firmation of the rule. The reply to the extended pleading 
paw was what might be called a double-barrelled kick, — 
a kick to be represented by the power of two when the 



208 THE WONDERSMITH. 

foot touched the object, multiplied by four when the entire 
leg formed an angle of 45° with the spinal column. The 
long, nervous leg of the Wondersmith caught the little 
creature in the centre of the body, doubled up his brown, 
hairy form, till he looked like a fur driving-glove, and 
sent him whizzing across the room into a fur corner, 
where he dropped senseless and flaccid. 

This vengeance which Herr Hippe executed upon Fur- 
below seemed to have operated as a sort of escape-valve, 
and he found voice. He hissed out the question, " Who 
are you?" to the hunchback; and in listening to that 
essence of sibilation it really seemed as if it j^roceeded 
from the serpent that curled upon his upper lip. 

" Who are you "i Deformed dog, who are you 1 W^hat 
do you here 1 " 

" My name is Solon," answered the fearless head of the 
hunchback, while the frail, cowardly body shivered and 
trembled inch by inch into a corner. 

*' So you come to visit my daughter in the night-time, 
when I am away 1 " continued the W^ondersmith, with a 
sneering tone that dropped from his snake- wreathed mouth 
like poison. "You are a brave and gallant lover, are 
you not ] Where did you win that Order of the Curse 
of God that decorates your shoulders 1 The women turn 
their heads and look after you in the street, when you 
pass, do they not *? lost in admiration of that symmetrical 
figure, those graceful limbs, that neck pliant as the stem 
that moors the lotus ! Elegant, conquering, Christian 
cripple, what do you here in my daughter's room 1 " 

Can you imagine Jove, limitless in power and wrath, 
hurling from his vast gi'asp mountain after moimtain upon 
the straggling Enceladus, — and picture the Titan sink- 
ing, sinking, deeper and deeper into the earth, crushed 



THE WONDERSMITH. 209 

and dying, with nothing visible through the superincum- 
bent masses of Pehon and Ossa but a gigantic head and 
two flaming eyes, that, despite the death which is creep- 
ing through each vein, still flash back defiance to the di- 
vine enemy ] Well, Solon and Herr Hippe presented such 
a picture, seen through the wrong end of a telescope, — 
reduced in proportion, but alike in action. Solon's feeble 
body seemed to sink into utter annihilation beneath the 
horrible taunts that his enemy hurled at him, while the 
large, brave brow and unconquered eyes still sent forth a 
magnetic resistance. 

Suddenly the poor hunchback felt his arm grasped. 
A thrill seemed to run through his entire body. A warm 
atmosphere, invigorating and full of delicious odor, sur- 
rounded him. It appeared as if invisible bandages were 
twisted all about his limbs, giving him a strange strength. 
His sinking legs straightened. His powerless arms were 
braced. Astonished, he glanced round for an instant, and 
beheld Zonela, with a world of love burning in her large 
lambent eyes, wreathing her round white arms about his 
humped shoulders. Then the poet knew the great sus- 
taining power of love. Solon reared himself boldly. 

*' Sneer at my poor form," he cried, in strong vibrating 
tones, flinging out one long arm and one thin finger at 
the Wondersmith, as if he would have impaled him like a 
beetle. "Humiliate me if you can. I care not. You 
are a wretch, and I am honest and pure. This girl is not 
your daughter. You are like one of those demons in the 
fairy tales that held beauty and purity locked in infernal 
spells. I do not fear you, Herr Hippe. There are stories 
abroad about you in the neighborhood, and when you 
pass people say that they feel evil and blight hovering 
over their thresholds. You persecute this girl. You are 

14 



210 THE WONDERSMITH. 

her tyrant. You hate her. I am a cripple. Providence 
has cast this lump upon my shoulders. But that is 
nothing. The camel, that is the salvation of the children 
of the desert, has been given his hump in order that he 
might bear his human burden better. This girl, who is 
homeless as the Arab, is my appointed load in life, and, 
please God, I will carry her on this back, hunched though 
it may be. I have come to see her because I love her, — 
because she loves me. You have no claim on her ; so I 
will take her from you." 

Quick as lightning the Wondersmith had stridden a 
few paces, and grasped the poor cripple, who was yet 
quivering with the departing thunder of his passion. He 
seized him in his bony, muscular grasp, as he would have 
seized a puppet, and held him at arm's length, gasping 
and powerless ; while Zonela, pale, breathless, entreating, 
sank half-kneeling on the floor. 

" Your skeleton will be interesting to science when you 
are dead, Mr. Solon," hissed the Wondersmith. " But 
before I have the pleasure of reducing you to an anatomy, 
which I will assuredly do, I wish to compliment you on 
your power of penetration, or sources of information ; for 
I know not if you have derived your knowledge from your 
own mental research or the efforts of others. You are 
perfectly correct in your statement that this charming 
young person, who day after day parades the streets with 
a barrel-organ and a monkey, — the last unhappily in- 
disposed at present, — listening to the degrading jokes of 
ribald boys and depraved men, — you are quite correct, 
sir, in stating that she is not my daughter. On the con- 
trary, she is the daughter of an Hungarian nobleman 
who had the misfortune to incur my displeasure. I had 
a son, crooked spawn of a Christian ! — a son, not like 



THE WONDERSMITH. 211 

you, cankered, gnarled stump of life that you are, — but 
a youth tall and fiiir and noble in aspect, as became a 
child of one whose lineage makes Pharaoh modern, — 
a 3'outh whose foot in the dance was as swift and beauti- 
ful to look at as the golden sandals of the sun when he 
dances upon the sea in summer. This youth was virtuous 
and good ; and being of good race, and dwelling in a 
country where his rank, gypsy as he was, was recognized, 
he mixed with the proudest of the land. One day he fell 
in with this accursed Hungarian, a fierce drinker of that 
devil's blood called brandy. My child until that hour 
had avoided this bane of our race. Generous wine he 
drank, because the soul of the sun, our ancestor, palpi- 
tated in its purple waves. But brandy, which is fallen 
and accursed wine, as devils are fallen and accursed an- 
gels, had never crossed his lips, until in an evil hour he 
was seduced by this Christian hog, and from that day 
forth his life was one fiery debauch, which set only in 
the black waves of death. I vowed vengeance on the 
destroj'er of my child, and I kept my w^ord. I have 
destroyed his child, — not compassed her death, but 
blighted her life, steeped her in misery and povertj^, and 
now, thanks to the thousand devils, I have discovered a 
new torture for her heart. She thought to solace her 
life with a love-episode ! Sweet little epicure that she 
was ! She shall have her little crooked lover, sha'n't 
she? 0, yes ! she shall have him, cold and stark and 
livid, with that great, black, heavy hunch, which no 
back, however broad, can bear, Death, sitting between his 
shoulders ! " 

There was something so av;ful and demoniac in this 
entire speech and the manner in which it was delivered, 
that it petrified Zonela into a mere inanimate figure, 



212 THE WONDERSMITH. 

whose eyes seemed unalterably fixed on the fierce, cruel 
face of the Wondersmith. As for Solon, he was para- 
lyzed in the grasp of his foe. He heard, but could not 
reply. His large eyes, dilated with horror to far beyond 
their ordinary size, expressed unutterable agony. 

The last sentence had hardly been hissed out by the 
gypsy when he took from his pocket a long, thin coil of 
whip-cord, which he entangled in a complicated mesh 
around the cripple's body. It was not the ordinary bind- 
ing of a prisoner. The slender lash passed and repassed 
in a thousand intricate folds over the powerless limbs of 
the poor humpback. When the operation was completed, 
he looked as if he had been sewed from head to foot in 
some singularly ingenious species of network. 

"Now, my pretty lop-sided little lover," laughed Herr 
Hippe, flinging Solon over his shoulder as a fisherman 
might fling a netful of fish, " we will proceed to put you 
into your little cage until your little coffin is quite ready. 
Meanwhile we will lock up your darling beggar-girl to 
mourn over your untimely end." 

So saying, he stepped from the room with his captive, 
and securely locked the door behind him. 

When he had disappeared, the frozen Zonela thawed, 
and with a shriek of anguish flung herself on the inani- 
mate body of Furbelow. 



VI. 

THE POISONING OF THE SWORDS. 

It was New Year's eve, and eleven o'clock at night. 
All over this great land, and in every great city in the 
land, curly heads were lying on white pillows, dreaming 



THE WONDERSMITH. 213 

of the coming of the generous Santa Clans. Innumerable 
stockings hung by countless bedsides. Visions of beauti- 
ful toys, passing in splendid pageantry through myriads 
of dimly lit dormitories, made millions of little hearts 
palpitate in sleep. Ah ! what heavenly toys those were 
that the children of this soil beheld, that mystic night, 
in their dreams ! Painted cars with orchestral wheels, 
making music more delicious than the roll of planets. 
Agile men, of cylindrical figure, who sprang unexpectedly 
out of meek-looking boxes, with a supernatural fierceness 
in their crimson cheeks and fur-whiskers. Herds of mar- 
vellous sheep, with fleeces as impossible as the one that 
Jason sailed after ; animals entirely indifferent to grass 
and water and "rot" and "ticks." Horses spotted with 
an astounding regularity, and furnished with the most 
ingenious methods of locomotion. Slender foreigners, 
attired in painfully short tunics, whose existence passed 
in continually turning heels over head down a steep flight 
of steps, at the bottom of which they lay in an exhausted 
condition with dislocated limbs, until they were restored 
to their former elevation, when they went at it again as if 
nothing had happened. Stately swans, that seemed to 
have a touch of the ostrich in them ; for they swam con- 
tinually after a piece of iron which was held before them, 
as if consumed with a ferruginous hunger. Whole farm- 
yards of roosters, whose tails curled the wrong way, — a 
slight defect, that was, however, amply atoned for by the 
size and brilliancy of their scarlet combs, which, it would 
appear, Providence had intended for pen-wipers. Pears, 
that, when applied to youthful lips, gave forth sweet and 
inspiring sounds. Regiments of soldiers, that performed 
neat but limited evolutions on cross-jointed contractile 
battle-fields. All these things, idealized, transfigured, 



214 THE WONDERSMITH. 

and illuminated by the powers and atmosphere and col- 
ored lamps of dream-land, did the millions of dear sleeping 
children behold, the night of the New Year's eve of which 
I speak. 

It was on this night, when Time was preparing to shed 
his skin, and come out young and golden and glossy as 
ever, — when, in the vast chambers of the universe, silent 
and infallible preparations were making for the wonderful 
birth of the coming year, — when mystic dews were se- 
creted for his baptism, and mystic instruments were tuned 
in space to welcome him, — it was at this holy and solemn 
hour that the Wondersmith and his three gypsy compan- 
ions sat in close conclave in the little parlor before men- 
tioned. 

There was a fii'e roaring in the grate. On a table, 
nearly in the centre of the room, stood a huge decanter 
of port wine, that glowed in the blaze which lit the 
chamber like a flask of crimson fire. On every side, piled 
in heaps, inanimate, but scowling with the same old won- 
drous scowl, lay myriads of the manikins, all clutching in 
their wooden hands their tiny weapons. The Wonder- 
smith held in one hand a small silver bowl filled with a 
green, glutinous substance, which he was delicately apply- 
ing, with the aid of a camel's-hair brush, to the tips of 
tiny swords and daggers. A horrible smile wandered 
over his sallow face, — a smile as unwholesome in appear- 
ance as the sickly light that plays above reeking grave- 
yards. 

*'Let us drink great draughts, brothers," he cried, 
leaving off his strange anointment for a while, to lift a 
great glass, filled with sparkling liquor, to his lips. " Let 
us drink to our approaching triumph. Let us drink to 
the great poisonj Macousha. Subtle seed of Death, — 



THE WONDERSMITH. 215 

swift hurricane that sweeps away Life, — vast hammer 
that crushes brain and heart and artery with its resistless 
weight, — I drink to it." 

" It is a noble decoction, Duke Balthazar," said the old 
fortune-teller and midwife, Madame Filomel, nodding in 
her chair as she swallowed her wine in great gulps. 
" Where did you obtain it 1 " 

"It is made," said the Wondersmith, swallowing an- 
other great draught of wine ere he replied, " in the wild 
woods of Guiana, in silence and in mystery. But one 
tribe of Indians, the Macoushi Indians, know the secret. 
It is simmered over fires built of strange woods, and the 
maker of it dies in the making. The place, for a mile 
around the spot where it is fabricated, is shunned as 
accursed. Devils hover over the pot in which it stews ; 
and the birds of the air, scenting the smallest breath of 
its vapor from far away, drop to earth with paralyzed 
wings, cold and dead." 

" It kills, then, fast 1 " asked Kerplonne, the artificial- 
eye maker, — his own eyes gleaming, under the influence 
of the wine, with a sinister lustre, as if they had been 
fresh from the factory, and were yet untarnished by use. 

" Kills 1 " echoed the Wondersmith, derisively ; " it is 
swifter than thunderbolts, stronger than lightning. But 
you shall see it proved before we let forth our army on 
the city accursed. You shall see a wretch die, as if smit- 
ten by a falling fragment of the sun." 

" What 1 Do you mean Solon ] " asked Oaksmith and 
the fortune-teller together. 

" Ah ! you mean the young man who makes the com- 
merce with books 1 " echoed Kerplonne. " It is well. 
His agonies will instruct us." 

" Yes ! Solon," answered Hippe, with- a savage accent. 



216 THE WONDERSMITH. 

" I hate him, and he shall die this horrid death. Ah ! 
how the little fellows will leap upon him, when I bring 
him in, bound and helpless, and give their beautiful 
wicked souls to them ! How they will pierce him in ten 
thousand spots with their poisoned weapons, until his 
skin turns blue and violet and crimson, and his form 
swells with the venom, — until his hump is lost in shape- 
less flesh ! He hears what I say, every word of it. He 
is in the closet next door, and is listening. How com- 
fortable he feels ! How the sweat of terror rolls on his 
brow ! How he tries to loosen his bonds, and curses all 
earth and heaven when he finds that he cannot ! Ho ! 
ho ! Handsome lover of Zonula, will she kiss you when 
you are livid and swollen 1 Brothers, let us drink again, 
— drink always. Here, Oaksmith, take these brushes, — 
and you, Filomel, — and finish the anointing of these 
swords. This wine is grand. This poison is grand. It 
is fine to have good wine to drink, and good poison to 
kill with ; is it not ? " — and, with flushed face and rolling 
eyes, the Wondersmith continued to drink and use his 
brush alternately. 

The others hastened to follow his example. It was a 
horrible scene : those four wicked faces ; those myriads 
of tiny faces, just as wicked ; the certain unearthly air 
that pervaded the apartment ; the red, unwholesome glare 
cast by the fire ; the wild, and reckless way in which the 
weird company drank the red-illumined wine. 

The anointing of the swords went on rapidly, and the 
wine went as rapidly down the throats of the four poison- 
ers. Their faces grew more and more inflamed each 
instant ; their eyes shone like rolling fireballs ; their hair 
was moist and dishevelled. The old fortune-teller rocked 
to and fro in her chair, like those legless plaster figures 



THE WONDERSMITH. 217 

that sway upon convex loaded bottoms. All four began 
to mutter incoherent sentences, and babble unintelligi- 
ble wickednesses. Still the anointing of the swords 
went on. 

" I see the faces of millions of young corpses," babbled 
Herr Hippe, gazing, with swimming eyes, into the silver 
bowl that contained the Macousha poison, — " all young, 
all Christians, — and the little fellows dancing, dancing, 
and stabbing, stabbing. Filomel, Filomel, I say ! " 

" Well, Grand Duke," snored the old woman, giving a 
violent lurch. 

" Where 's the bottle of souls ?" 

" In my right-hand pocket, Herr Hippe" ; — and she felt, 
so as to assure herself that it was there. She half drew 
out the black bottle, before described in this narrative, 
and let it slide again into her pocket, — let it slide again, 
but it did not completely regain its former place. Caught 
by some accident, it hung half out, swaying over the edge 
of the pocket, as the fat midwife rolled backwards and 
forwards in her drunken efforts at equilibrium. 

" All right," said HeiT Hippe, " perfectly right ! Let 's 
drink." 

He reached out his hand for his glass, and, with a dull 
sigh, dropped on the table, in the instantaneous slumber 
of intoxication. Oaksmith soon fell back in his chair, 
breathing heavily. Kerplonne followed. And the heavy, 
stertorous breathing of Filomel told that she slumbered 
also ; but still her chair retained its rocking motion, and 
still the bottle of souls balanced itself on the edge of her 
pocket. 



218 THE WONDERSMITH. 

VII. 

LET LOOSE. 

Sure enough, Solon heard every word of the fiendish 
talk of the Wondersmith. For how many days he had 
been shut up, bound in the terrible net, in that dark 
closet, he did not know ; but now he felt that his last 
hour was come. His little strength was completely worn 
out in efforts to disentangle himself. Once a day a door 
opened, and Herr Hippe placed a crust of bread and a 
cup of water within his reach. On this meagre fare he 
had subsisted. It was a hard life ; but, bad as it was, it 
was better than the horrible death that menaced him. 
His brain reeled with terror at the prospect of it. Then, 
where was Zonela 1 Why did she not come to his rescue 1 
But she was, perhaps, dead. The darkness, too, appalled 
him. A faint light, when the moon was bright, came at 
night through a chink far up in the wall ; and the only 
other hole in the chamber was an aperture through which, 
at some former time, a stove-pipe had been passed. Even 
if he were free, there would have been small hope of es- 
cape ; but, laced as it were in a network of steel, what 
was to be done? He groaned and writhed upon the floor, 
and tore at the boards with his hands, which were free 
from the wrists down. All else was as solidly laced up 
as an Indian pappoose. Nothing but pride kept him from 
shrieking aloud, when, on the night of New Year's eve, 
he heard the fiendish Hippe recite the programme of his 
murder. 

AVhile he was thus wailing and gnashing his teeth in 
darkness and torture, he heard a faint noise above his 
head. Then something seemed to leap from the ceiling 



THE WONDEESMITH. 219 

and alight softly on the floor. He shuddered with ter- 
ror. Was it some new torture of the Wondersmith's in- 
vention ? The next moment, he felt some small animal 
crawhng over his body, and a soft, silky paw was pushed 
timidly across his face. His heart leaped with joy. 

"It is Furbelow!" he cried. " Zonela has sent him. 
He came through the stove-pipe hole." 

It was Furbelow, -indeed, restored to life by Zonela's 
care, and who had come down a narrow tube, that no 
human being could have threaded, to console the poor 
captive. The monkey nestled closely into the hunch- 
back's bosom, and, as he did so, Solon felt something 
cold and hard hanging from his neck. He touched it! 
It was sharp. By the dim light that struggled throu-h 
the aperture high up in the wall, he discovered a knife 
suspended by a bit of cord. Ah! how the blood came 
rushing through the veins that crossed over and through 
his heart, when life and liberty came to him in this bit 
of rusty steel ! With his manacled hands he loosened 
the heaven-sent weapon; a few cuts were rapidly made 
in the cunning network of cord that enveloped his limbs, 
and m a few seconds he was free ! — cramped and faint 
with hunger, but free ! - free to move, to use the limbs 
that God had given him for his preservation, — free to 
fight, — to die fighting, perhaps, — but still to die free 
He ran to the door. The bolt was a weak one, for the 
Wondersmith had calculated more surely on his prison 
of cords than on any jail of stone, - and more; and 
with a few eff-orts the door opened. He went cautiously 
out into the darkness, with Furbelow perched on his 
shoulder, pressing his cold muzzle against his cheek. He 
had made but a few steps when a trembling hand was 
put into his, and in another moment Zonela's palpitating 



220 THE WONDERSMITH. 

heart was pressed against his own. One long kiss, an 
embrace, a few whispered words, and the hunchback and 
the girl stole softly towards the door of the chamber in 
which the four gypsies slept. All seemed still ; nothing 
but the hard breathing of the sleepers and the monoto- 
nous rocking of Madame Filomel's chair broke the silence. 
Solon stooped down and put his eye to the keyhole, 
through which a red bar of light streamed into the entry. 
As he did so, his foot crushed some brittle substance that 
lay just outside the door; at the same moment a howl of 
agony was heard to issue from the room within. Solon 
started; nor did he know that at that instant he had 
crashed into dust Monsieur Kerplonne's supernumerary 
eye, and the owner, though wrapt in a drunken sleep, 
felt the pang quiver through his brain. 

While Solon peeped through the keyhole, all in the 
room was motionless. He had not gazed, however, for 
many seconds, when the chair of the fortune-teller gave a 
sudden lurch, and the black bottle, already hanging half 
out of her wide pocket, slipped entirely from its resting- 
place, and, falling heavily to the ground, shivered into 
fragments. 

Then took place an astonishing spectacle. The myriads 
of armed dolls, that lay in piles about the room, became 
suddenly imbued with motion. They stood up straight, 
their tiny limbs moved, their black eyes flashed with 
wicked purposes, their thread-like swords gleamed as they 
waved them to and fro. The villanous souls imprisoned 
in the bottle began to work within them. Like the Lili- 
putians, when they found the giant Gulliv.er asleep, they 
scaled in swarms the burly sides of the four sleeping 
gypsies. At every step they took, they drove their thin 
swords and quivering daggers into the flesh of the drunken 



THE WONDERSMITH. 221 

authors of their heing. To stab and kill was their mis- 
sion, and they sta.bbed and killed with incredible fury. 
They clustered on the Wondersmith's sallow cheeks and 
sinewy throat, piercing every portion with their diminu- 
tive poisoned blades. Filomel's fat carcass was alive 
with them. They blackened the spare body of Monsieur 
Kerplonne. They covered Oaksmith's huge form like a 
cluster of insects. 

Overcome completely with the fumes of wine, these 
tiny wounds did not for a few moments awaken the sleep- ^ 
ing^ victims. But the swift and deadly poison Macousha, 
with which the weapons had been so fiendishly anointed, 
began to work. Herr Hippe, stung into sudden life, 
leaped to his feet, with a dwarf army clinging to his 
clothes and his hands, — always stabbing, stabbing, stab- 
bing. For an instant, a look of stupid bewilderment 
clouded his face ; then the horrible truth burst upon him. 
He gave a shriek like that which a horse utters when he 
finds himself fettered and surrounded by fire, — a shriek 
that curdled the air for miles and miles. 

" Oaksmith ! Kerplonne ! Filomel ! Awake ! awake ! 
We are lost ! The souls have got loose ! We are dead ! 
poisoned ! accursed ones ! demons, ye are slaying 
me ! Ah ! fiends of hell ! " 

Aroused by these frightful howls, the three gypsies 
sprang also to their feet, to find themselves stung to 
death by the manikins. They raved, they shrieked, they 
swore. They staggered round the chamber. Bhnded in 
the eyes by the ever-stabbing weapons, — with the poi- 
son already burning in their veins like red-hot lead, — 
their forms swelling and discoloring visibly every mo- 
nient, — their howls and attitudes and furious gestures 
made the scene look like a chamber in hell. 



222 THE WONDERSMITH. 

Maddened beyond endurance, the Wondersmith, half- 
blind and choking with the venom that had congested 
all the blood-vessels of his body, seized dozens of the 
manikins and dashed them into the fire, trampling them 
down with his feet. 

" Ye shall die too, if I die," he cried, with a roar like 
that of a tiger. " Ye shall burn, if I burn. I gave ye 
life, — I give ye death. Down ! — down ! — burn ! — 
flame ! Fiends that ye are, to slay us ! Help me, broth- 
ers ! Before we die, let us have our revenge ! " 

On this, the other gj^psies, themselves maddened by 
approaching death, began hurling manikins, by handfuls, 
into the fire. The little creatures, being wooden of body, 
quickly caught the flames, and an awful struggle for life 
took place in miniature in the grate. Some of them es- 
caped from between the bars and ran about the room, 
blazing, writhing in agony, and igniting the curtains and 
other draperies that liung around. Others fought and 
stabbed one another in the ver}'- core of the fire, like 
combating salamanders. Meantime, the motions of the 
gypsies grew more languid and slow, and their curses 
were uttered in choked guttural tones. The faces of all 
four were spotted with red and green and violet, like 
so many egg-plants. Their bodies were swollen to a 
frightful size, and at last they dropped on the floor, like 
over-ripe fruit shaken from the boughs by the winds of 
autumn. 

The chamber was now a sheet of fire. The flames 
roared round and round, as if seeking for escape, licking 
every projecting cornice and sill with greedy tongues, as 
the serpent licks his prey before he swallows it. A hot, 
putrid breath came through the keyhole, and smote 
Solon and Zonela like a wind of death. They clasped 



THE WONDERSMITH. 223 

each other's hands with a moan of terror, and fled from 

^Irnext morning, when the young year was just un- 
closing its eyes, and the happy children all over the great 
city were peeping from their beds into the mynads of 
stockings hanging near by, the blue skies of heaven shone 
through a black network of stone and charred rafters. 
These were all that remained of the habitation of Herr 
Hippe, the Wondersmith. 



224 TOMMATOO. 



TOMMATOO. 



THE HOUSE BY THE STONE-YARD. 

A FAIRY that had lost the power of vanishing, and was 
obhged to remain ever present, doing continual good ; a 
cricket on the hearth, chirping through heat and cold ; 
an animated amulet, sovereign against misfortune; a 
Santa Claus, without the wrinkles, but young and beauti- 
ful, choosing the darkest moments to leap right into one's 
heart, and drop there the prettiest moral playthings to 
gladden and make gay, — such, in my humble opinion, 
was Tommatoo. 

As yet I do not ask the reader to agree with me ; for 
over him I have this one great advantage, — I know who 
Tommatoo is. When, however, he makes her acquaint- 
ance also, hears her twitter round the house, beholds the 
flash of her large dusky-gray eyes, is wonder-struck at the 
marvellous twinkling of her ever-dancing little feet, he 
can take his choice of all the personifications with which 
I began this story, and I feel convinced that he will select 
the most beautiful to enrobe Tommatoo. . — ■ — ' 

There is (or rather was, six years ago, when the inci- 
dents to be narrated took place, — but I shall narrate 
them in the present tense) a vast flat of land stretching 
along the New York shore of the North River, close to 
where Thirty-Second Street vanishes into a swamp, in 



TOMMATOO. 225 

which unborn avenues are supposed to be slowly matur- 
ing. Although yet in embryo, they are already chris- 
tened, and city engineers have imaginative ground-plans 
hanging on their walls, w^here Twelfth and Thirteenth 
Avenues are boldly represented, with as much minuteness 
as Fifth or Sixth. Should, however, any sanguine person 
be led by those delusive maps to seek for such mythical 
thoroughfares, Ponce de Leon, after his pursuit of the 
Fountain of Youth, would not offer a more striking 
example of ill-success. On reaching the spot where im- 
agination depicted the long perspective of rails, with 
crowded and hurrying cars gliding smoothly to and fro, 
he would behold this vision of civic activity replaced by 
the dreary and mysterious waste I have spoken of, with- 
out even a sign-post pointing to the splendid future re- 
served for it by city surveyors. 

This tract of land is perhaps the most melancholy and 
mysterious spot in the whole city. The different streets 
that cross the island pull up, as it were, suddenly on 
reaching this dreary place, seemingly afraid to trust 
themselves any further. The buildings that approach 
nearest to its confines are long, low ranges of fetid 
slaughter-houses, where on Sundays bloated butcher-boys 
lounge against the walls; and on week-days one hears 
through the closed doors the muffled blow, the heavy fall 
of the oxen within ; the groan, and the hard-drawn breath ; 
and then a red, sluggish stream trickles out from under 
the doorway and flows into the gutter, where hungry dogs 
wait impatiently to lap it up. The murderous atmosphere, 
these smells of blood, seem appropriate enough as one 
approaches this desolate locality. 

A great plain of red, swampy clay is covered here and 
there with numberless huge, helpless beams of timber, — 

15 



226 TOMMATOO. 

some floating like dead rafts in the stream, and chained 
to the bank ; others high and dry, blackening in the sun, 
and shadowing criminal-looking dogs that skulk in and 
out among them all day long. One or two immature 
piers jut out into the river here and there, and grimy 
sloops that seem to have no particular trade, unless it is 
to rot calmly at their moorings, lie alongside, and grate 
and chafe lazily against the C'slim^ "logs. A few homeless 
boys, with smeared faces and thin, starved arms, who 
seem to have dressed themselves in the rags and kite-tails 
that flutter on telegraph-wires, lie on the sunny sides of 
the timber piles sleeping away hunger, or sometimes sit 
on the edges of the green piers languidly fishing for some- 
thing which they never catch. Cinders most unaccounta- 
bly prevail all over the pTac6 ; they crackle under the 
feet, and the dogs gather round occasional piles of them, 
growling over a burned bone lying in the ashes : where 
they come from is not to be known. There are no houses, 
no factories, and the rotting sloops are so damp and (slimy) 
that it w'ould be a mockery to suppose a fire had ever 
been lit in any one of them. Nevertheless the cinders 
prevail; and at certain hours in the day two or three 
crouching creatures wander slowly among the heaps, 
picking mysterious objects, with hands that seem them- 
selves to have been burned into coke. 

The place is also a species of morgue for dead dogs. 
Every cur that the Hudson drowns floats inevitably to this 
spot and is swept up on the swampy bank, — when the 
outlawed mongrels that skulk between the timber logs 
crowd around it, and perhaps identify the corpse. On Sun- 
days you see a few low-browed, soap-locked loafers strolling 
among the piles, pitching stones into the water, and, if it 
is summer, stripping off their tattered shirts to have a 



TOMMATOO. 227 

swim ; but on week-days the place is entirely dead. The 
starved boys and the shadowy rag-pickers flitting here 
and there give no air of life ; they seem very thin and 
impalpable, and haunt the place like ghosts. 

Further on this dreary swamp changes somewhat its 
character. The great balks of timber disappear, and a 
few shingle huts — so loosely built that the wind whistles 
through their walls with a shriek of triumph — are scat- 
tered here and there. Large masses of stone lie about, 
hewn into square blocks for house-fronts, and in the day- 
time the monotonous click of the stone-cutter's chisel 
shrills continually from the shingle huts. This straggling 
stone-yard, for such it is, is perhaps less desolate than 
the swamp further down, but at night — when the moon 
streams on the huge white blocks that lie there so cold 
and dead, and the huts are deserted by the workmen, and 
nothing moves but a shadowy dog that flits by, seen for 
an instant against the pallid stones — the place is in- 
expressibly weird and lonely. 

Just on the confines of this stone-yard, in a rutty, 
half-made road that is bounded on both sides by burned- 
looking building-lots, where nothing hides the scalded 
earth but some unhealthy boulders, and occasional rem- 
nants of old shoes that are black and pulpy with decay, 
stands a small house built of unpainted shingles. It 
is two-storied, with a basement, and a somewhat im- 
posing flight of steps up to the door; yet it wears a reck- 
less and despairing aspect. I have no doubt when this 
house was built it had many youthful hopes of estab- 
lishing a neighborhood and becoming a dwelling of re- 
spectability. It promised itself, perhaps, a coat or two 
of paint, and had visions of being the ancestor of a street. 
But year after year wore away, and it found itself still 



228 TOMMATOO. 

naked as when it was born. No companion dwelling 
lifted its head to cheer the solitude. On all sides the 
bleak river-winds tousled and smote its bare walls until 
its windows chattered with the cold. It grew weary of 
waiting for the neighborhood that never was to come, and 
seemed to care no longer what became of it. It let 
beardy mosses grow all over its haggard face. Its edges 
were chipped and ragged ; its chimneys, no longer spruce 
and tapering, bulged and tottered to one side, like the 
crushed hat of a confirmed drunkard. It buttoned itself 
up no more about the chest with its snug, comfortable 
doors, but let them hang loose on one hinge, and flap about 
in the wind. It was evident to any one who saw it that 
the house near the stone-yard had gone to the bad. 

Forlorn and seedy as it looked, this house was inhab- 
ited. The shivering, shrunken windows gleamed with 
lights by night, yet not cheerfully, but with a wild glare, 
like that which streams from the eyes of those about to 
die. If the skulking men that prowled in summer even- 
ings among the sheds of the stone-yard, whistling mys- 
teriously to each other, had any taste for music, the house 
would have been to them a source of great wonder. 
Sometimes for hours together a wild and mellow music 
would stream upon the air, soaring over the dreary yard, 
wailing sadly along the waste river-grounds and by the 
rotting sloops until it reached the water, when it would 
float triumphally along, as if it knew that it was leaving 
the desolate place behind it, and bury itself deep in the 
sleeping groves that nodded on the distant Weehawken 
heights. The character of these melodious sounds was 
entirely mystical and strange. They were not born of 
violin or bugle, and yet seemed to have the souls of both 
instruments intermingling with another distinctly their 



TOMMATOO. 229 

own ; — another soul, not merely instrumental, but human, 
passionate, luxuriant, as if all the utterances of a great 
Italian love — desire, entreaty, and triumph — were trans- 
lated into aerial harmonies. 

To you and I, reader, there need be no mystery in 
either house or music. That despairing-looking chateau 
was inhabited but by three people, — an old man, a young 
girl, and a youth of about twenty-one. As age is entitled 
to its traditional homage of precedence, I will first intro- 
duce to you the elder of the trio. I beg to present to 
your notice the maestro, Baioccho. 

You could not possibly conceive a man made up with 
less waste of material than Signor Baioccho. Nature, 
when she formed him, mu&t have been terribly short of 
stuff. There was too little of everything in his physical 
composition. He was abbreviated in every limb and fea- 
ture. This, nevertheless, was fortunate, for had he been 
on a large scale he would have been insupportably ugly ; 
he was too small, however, to be repulsive, and so was 
only queer. But how queer he was, w^ith his withered, 
pinched-up face, his sparse, stiff beard, which looked like 
a thin growth of thorns, and his quaint, convulsed figure, 
that gave one the idea that all inside of him was catgut 
and wheels, and that something was continually breaking 
in his machinery ! Yet, with all this likeness to a comic 
toy, how inexpressibly mournful was the countenance of 
Signor Baioccho ! what terrible sorrow was hopelessly 
shut up in that wretched little frame ! 

Baioccho had been a musician, and was now a cook. 
Years ago, when opera was young in New York, Baioccho 
came here from Italy with a company, set up an opera- 
house, was instantly successful, and made a fortune. 
Music was his religion, the lyric stage his temple, the con- 



230 TOMMATOO. 

ductor's desk his altar, the overture his mass. But he 
became a fanatic in his faith. He enlarged his house ; 
he spent thousands of dollars on the production of new 
operas, and, as a matter of course, he became bankrupt. 
For the opera is like a Parisian mistress, the most charm- 
ing, fascinating, bewildering of all creations, and inva- 
riably leaves you without a shilling at last. For many 
years poor Baioccho struggled to keep his feet. He led 
orchestras at second-rate theatres; he gave lessons on 
the piano and violin, always hoping, always dreaming of 
one day grasping again the magical baton, the sceptre of 
his world. It was a vain struggle, however ; other maestri 
came over from Italy with still more wondrous and expen- 
sive singers than those Baioccho brought, and they built 
opera-houses, and bought newspaper puffs, and covered 
the dead walls with huge announcements of colossal suc- 
cesses; and the world, rushing on the heels of novelty, 
swept over the ancestor of American opera, and poor Bai- 
occho found himself trampled on, bruised, and left to die. 
It were too sad a task to enumerate the various steps 
which led Baioccho from Parnassus to the kitchen. An 
accomplishment of which in his palmy days he had been 
not a little proud, was now brought into requisition to 
save him from starvation ; the hand that was too weak 
to hold the baton found itself still able to brandish the 
ladle. Those gay Italian tenors, those majestic bassos, 
little thought when, round his elegant supper-table long 
ago, they used to applaud his amateur cookery, delicious 
mayonnaises, harmonious salads, that the day would arrive 
when the poor conductor would don the white apron and 
cotton cap ver}^ seriously, and sweat all day in a restau- 
rant kitchen through an eternal round of soups and roasts 
and entrees ever the same. But so it was. Those who 



TOMMATOO. 231 

frequented Calcar's Restaurant would now and then be- 
hold a wizened little man stealing quietly from some mys- 
terious passage leading to the kitchen, and sneaking up to 
the bar, where he would hastily swallow a potent draught 
of raw brandy, and shuffle back guiltily to the place 
whence he came. And they would see one or two old 
New-Yorkers looking pitifully after him, and saying to 
each other that they remembered poor Baioccho when he 
drove his carriage. He now trudged home every night 
on foot; and it was sad to see the old fellow, unsteady 
with drink, staggering down the rutty road to the house 
near the stone-yard, where the faithful Tommatoo kept 
watch until she heard his stumbling footstep, when, trip- 
ping to the door, she tenderly helped him up to bed. 

So ! we have come at last to Tommatoo. I have been 
longing to get to her for some time past, but it would 
have been unkind to have deserted old Baioccho now that 
he is so poor. Salutation to his misfortunes ! 

Tommatoo was Baioccho's only child. In some quaint 
old Italian chapel, it may be by the shores of Sorrento, a 
smiling babe was one sunny day christened by the stout 
old Padre, and the name bestowed was Tomasina. Melo- 
dious as was this pretty name, the little girl that bore it, 
as soon as she reached lisping age, obstinately refused to 
be known by any cognomen but that of Tommatoo. This 
sounded awfully heathenish to old Baioccho, but she was 
apparently determined, and in time her imperious infant 
will had its effect on the family. She became Tommatoo 
to all intents and purposes, as far as household experi- 
ence went, and even when she grew up to the age of 
reason did not seem anxious to reclaim her original ap- 
pellation. 

Tommatoo was one of those lovely, fair-haired Italians 



232 TOMMATOO. 

that one sees so seldom, but which once seen are never 
forgotten. At some antique period, when Alaric was 
king, some of the blood of his blonde race must have min- 
gled with the olive-skinned Roman Baiocchi, and after 
centuries of rest suddenly bloomed in Tommatoo. Her 
eyes were a dark liquid gray, like a twilight lake. Her 
face w^as pale, yet not cold, for a southern fire seemed 
to smoulder beneath the skin, with a beautiful, subdued 
glow. Her mouth, small and moist and rosy, pouted 
over pearly teeth, half seen, and the curves of her smooth 
cheeks swept into a wickedly dimpled chin, that aided 
and abetted with all its might the criminal beauty of her 
bewildering lips. This sweet virginal face was set in a 
golden frame of luxuriant hair, that one of Raphael's saints 
might have envied. 

Yet why speak of Tommatoo's beauty so rapturously 1 
I shall have no enthusiasm left for that bright and joyous 
nature that burst from her as the sun bursts from a golden 
cloud, shedding its own lustre on everything, and infus- 
ing into all a portion of its own .innate warmth. Every 
one has felt at times, when wandering through the fields, 
the intense joy experienced from the twittering of the 
birds amidst the branches and the glancing of their tiny 
forms through the leaves. Some such pure and healthy 
influence did Tommatoo exercise over the little household. 
She twittered and sung, and, as it were, fluttered lightly 
through the rooms, until one could swear that the sun 
shone wherever she went. All day, while old Baioccho 
was absent attending to his culinary duties, compounding 
wondrous soups, and moving amidst the thick steams of 
the kitchen like an elf in some incantation scene, Tomma- 
too was putting the old house in order ; sweeping up the 
little sitting-room, displaying its scanty furniture to the 



TOMMATOO. 233 

best advantage, and occasionally darting like a swallow 
into Mr. Gustavo Beaumont's sanctum sanctorum. 

It must be confessed that this was one of the house- 
hold occupations that Tommatoo performed with the great- 
est willingness; for Mr. Gustavo Beaumont was young, 
handsome, and played the most delightful melodies on his 
great instrument, invented by himself, entitled the Pan- 
corno. The Pancorno was a singular piece of mechanism j 
hideously suggestive, in appearance, of some nameless in- 
strument of torture from the dungeons of the Inquisition, 
yet in reality capable of soothing the most agonizing pains 
by the sweetness of its notes. By aid of some interior 
arrangement of tubes, the vibrations of the horn portion 
acted in turn upon what must have been a series of wires 
also concealed, and which seemed to give the effect of a 
trio between flute, violin, and French-horn. It was from 
the Pancorno that the seraphic strains heard at night 
across the stone-yard floated so harmoniously, giving to 
the old house an air of being one of those enchanted 
abodes frequent in fairy tales, in w^hich dwelt some spell- 
bound prince, w^ho thus summoned in music his faithful 
knights to his rescue. 

Gustave was a clever young Frenchman, with an ex- 
traordinary passion for music, whom old Baioccho had 
known ever since he was a child. He w^as the son of the 
bassoon in one of the orchestras which the maestro had 
conducted in his palmy days ; but one night the bassoon 
died in the middle of a rapid passage, and the little Gus- 
tave was left without a father, and but one friend, Bai- 
occho. The old Italian took the bassoon's son home, 
brought him up as his own child along with Tommatoo ; 
and when his fall came Gustave still shared his scanty 
means. To do the young fellow justice, he wanted to 



234 TOMMATOO. 

work, but the old man would not have it. " You are a 
genius, Gustave," he would say, "and, please the Virgin, 
you shall do something great." So Gustave did nothing 
great or small save the invention of the Pancomo, out of 
which he expected to reap a fortune, and he continued to 
live at the house by the stone-yard, having first scrupu- 
lously bargained with his entertainer to pay three dollars 
a week, which, as he did nothing but play on the Pan- 
corno and make love to Tommatoo, it is needless to say 
he never earned and never paid. It quieted his con- 
science, however, and he used to say to himself that when 
he sold his invention for one hundred thousand dollars, 
that being the least he would take for it, old Baioccho 
should live like a prince. 

And this is the last of the inmates of the house by 
the stone-yard. 



TI. 

A FAMILY GROUP. 

" Is that you, father ? " 

"Ah, the little Tommatoo ! So you maintain the 
watch for the poor old father 1 Bless you, little angel ! " 

" Take care of the step, father. Take care." 

" Put yourself easy, my child. I will be remindful of 
the step. I am very steadfast on my feet this evening. " 

And, as if to falsify his testimony, poor old Baioccho 
staggered up the steps leading to the hall-door, and would 
have fallen if Tommatoo had not caught one of his thin 
arms and held him up. 

"It is nothing; it is nothing!" he exclaimed, as he 
tottered through the hall into the little parlor. " I can 



TOMMATOO. 235 

walk myself well enough. But it is the kitchen, — that 
dam kitchen ! It has got into my head, my child. Where 
is the cognac 1 " 

" Do you think it would do you any good, father ? " 
asked Tommatoo, sorrowfully ; " won't it make your head 
bad]" 

" Ah, little dove ! It does not comprehend. My child, 
the cognac is the life to me. When I stew and form 
dishes and mingle soups all day long in that dam kitchen, 
it gets into my head ; and sometimes, mon Dieu ! when I 
stand over the ragout, and try to forget the place where I 
have found myself for a moment, the old times return 
upon me and I become very sad and sorrowful, so that I 
have to walk myself out to the bar and drink the cognac ; 
and then, per haccho ! I remember myself not, and I go 
back to my kitchen quite raised. Give me one little 
glass of cognac, my child 1 — one glass for the poor old 
father ! " 

Tommatoo fluttered over to a little cupboard that stood 
on one side of the room, and brought out a bottle and a 
wine-glass, and, pouring out some brandy, handed it to 
the old man. 

He raised it tremulously to his mouth, and quaffed it oft' 
at a single draught ; then, smacking his lips, he muttered, 
"Ah ! the cognac is the soul to the old men like me ! " 

There was nothing disgusting in Baioccho's intoxica- 
tion. The inebriety of the old musician was as cleanly 
as the tipsiness of a toy-man — had such been possible. 
His little eyes only twinkled the brighter, and his nose 
seemed longer and sharper and thinner, and his lips 
moved more rapidly ; but that was all. His speech was 
not thick, nor were his ideas clouded. It was drunken- 
ness idealized. 



236 TOMMATOO. 

" What has my child to tell me of the day ? " asked the 
old man, invigorated as it were by the petit veiTe de cognac. 

Tommatoo drooped her eyelids, colored a little, and 
did not reply for a moment. 

** Some one has been here," she said, at last. 

" Which was it, little one ] " 

" It was — it was — " And the little one faltered. 

" Diable ! " cried the old man, leaping like an enraged 
cat from his chair, as if an idea had flashed upon him 
suddenly. " Ten millions of devils ! was it not that 
brute Giuseppe "?" 

" It was, father," answered Tommatoo, soothingly. 
"Pray, don't fly into a rage. I could not helj) it." 

" The wretch ! the abandoned-by-God miserable fel- 
low ! " shouted old Baioccho, growing more and more 
excited each moment. " So he must place himself near 
my child, my angel, to steal her away from me ! But 
we will see ! What did he say to you % " he added, turn- 
ing almost fiercely to Tommatoo. 

" 0, nothing more than what he has said to you. He 
said he loved me very much, and if I would marry him 
that he would take us all back to Italy, and that you 
should end your days in comfort." 

" 0, the serpent ! His mother and his grandftither 
were snakes ! You know not that man, Tommatoo ! He 
is capable of roasting his father on a spit ! '* 

" But, dear father, yon know I hate him. I will never 
marry any one but Gustave, and not that until you wish 
it. I laughed at Giuseppe, and told him to go away." 
And Tommatoo made an ineffectual attempt to give some 
idea of her stern manner to Giuseppe ; but if the reality 
was at all like the representation, I don't think that the 
descendant of snakes was very much crushed. 



TOMMATOO. 237 

" Ah, child ! you are as innocent as the flowei* that 
grows under our feet ! " and Baioccho looked down, but, 
finding no flowers, continued : " He will perform some 
mischief to us. I feel it in — in the air ! " and the sharp 
eyes seemed to pierce into the depths of the gloomy room, 
and fasten on some spectral misfortune. " Now Gustave 
is a good boy. He will be a great man. His Pancorno 
shall be played in many universal cities, and the good 
fortune shall come to him. Thou shalt be the wife of 
Gustave, my small pet child ! " 

"But," said Tommatoo, with a half-smile, "I think he 
loves his Pancorno better than he does me." 

"It is the love of the artist, mignonne. He loves it 
with his soul, but his heart — ah, that is thine ! " 

"Hark! there he is!" cried Tommatoo, hushing her 
father into silence as the liquid, delicious notes of the 
Pancorno stole through the house. 

"Yes, let us listen. heaven, how beautiful!" ex- 
claimed the old musician, rapturously ; then in a half- 
whisper added, " One little glass more of the cognac, ma 
biche." 

And there they sat in the dusk of- the room, the old 
man warming his veins with the cognac, the young girl 
dreaming of her lover, and both listening to the music 
that bore them far away, out of the old house by the 
stone-yard, into a delicious land, where the sea lay like a 
mistress on the broad breast of the beaches, and the 
breath of the orange groves wandered like unheard music 
through the slopes and valleys. 

" I think so of my home," murmured the old maestro, 
and I know that a tear fell through the twilight as he 
spoke, — " of my dear, dear home when I hear the music. 
Ah ! why does not my brother — the brother of my youth 



238 TOMMATOO. 

— replace me in my dear Italy 1 He is more rich than 
a great many of Jews, and yet he will not spare his poor 
brother one scudo, Tommatoo. 0, if I were the rich 
Pietro, and he the poor cook Giulio Baioccho, I would 
not count my zechins until he had what he wanted. If 
he would only promise to leave my little Tommatoo some- 
thing when he died, I would not care for myself. Ah, the 
bad brother ! Mignonne, one other little veiTe de cognac 
for the poor old cook." 

" Shall I go and tell Gustave that you have come 
home ?" asked Tommatoo. " We must have supper soon, 
you know, father." 

" Do, my beloved. Sweet as are the notes of the Pan- 
corn o, thy voice is sweeter still. Go and gladden the 
good Gustave with its music." 

Tommatoo tripped to the door, perched for a moment 
on the threshold like a little bird hovering on the edge 
of its cage, then, after looking back into the dusky room 
with a radiant smile that seemed to illuminate the twi- 
light, she vanished, and in a few moments the notes of 
the Pancorno ceased, and there were light, pattering foot- 
steps heard in its stead. 

The old musician, when she was gone, buried his head 
in his hands, and seemed lost in meditation ; — so lost 
that he neither heard nor saw anything around him ; — 
neither the footsteps that came softly toward him through 
the gloom, nor the tall cloaked form that stood beside 
him, until a hand laid on his shoulder startled him from 
his reverie, and he looked up. 

"Who is that]" he asked, with a sort of astonished 
abruptness, as he in vain tried to distinguish the new- 
comer's features through the darkness. 

" It is I, — Giuseppe," answered the figure in a very 
calm voice, and in Italian. 



TOMMATOO. 239 

" What dost thou here again, outcast *? " cried the old 
maestro, starting from his seat hurriedly and in great 
agitation. "I tell thee that thou shalt never wed my 
daughter. I know thee well. I know of thy prison life. 
I know of that bloody affair, in Venice, when even the 
sacred stole of the priest could not shield his heart from 
thy accursed hand. Begone ! or I will call for help, and 
have thee lodged in the jail." 

"Come, come, Baioccho, no need of all this bad lan- 
guage. You wrong me, I swear you wrong me. I am 
not the man you take me for, nor do I wish to press my 
suit with Tommatoo. I come for other ends. I bear 
great tidings to thee. I bring thee great riches." 

"Ah, boaster, you will not cajole me with your fine 
words ! " cried the old cook, mockingly. 

" If I do, may I forget my mother's grave ! " exclaimed 
Giuseppe, earnestly. "Walk with me for ten minutes 
along the road, and if I prove not my words thou shalt 
never see my face again." 

In spite of his detestation of his fellow-countryman 
Baioccho could not prevent his heart from leaping to his 
mouth at the mention of wealth. In a moment he saw 
himself emancipated from the accursed kitchen, his Tom- 
matoo clad as became her beauty, Gustave's Pancorno 
brought before the public, and all three living happily in 
the dear Italy, making a music out of life itself. 

" Well," said he, "I will go and walk with you. But 
why not tell it here 1 " 

"Because houses are less safe to speak in than the 
universe," said Giuseppe. " You forget that I was once 
a conspirator, and am cautious." 

" I remember it well enough," muttered Baioccho, as 
both left the house, " and the police of Venice remember 
it better." ' 



240 TOMMATOO. 

They walked slowly toward the stone-yard. Neither 
spoke, — Baioccho disdaining to show any impatience, 
Giuseppe remaining silent for some motive of his own. 
So on through the stone-yard ; amidst the white blocks 
that loomed like dim ghosts through the darkness; by 
the shingle huts that, with their jagged corners and ir- 
regular roofs, seemed in the darkness to crouch like 
strange animals, squatting upon the dreary earth ; over 
rough masses of unhewn stone, through deep ruts left by 
cart-wheels in the soft clay, until they reached the river. 

" Well," sai-d Baioccho, at last, " how long am I to wait 
for this wondrous intelligence ? " 

" Your brother is dead," answered Giuseppe. 

" What ! " almost shrieked the old cook, " and — and 
— he left — " 

" You everything." 

" Holy Virgin be praised ! " ejaculated the poor old 
fellow, clasping his hands and kneeling in the damjD, oozy 
earth. "My dear Tommatoo will be rich," 

" I have just arrived from Italy," continued Giuseppe. 
" I saw your brother. I found him dying. I spoke to 
him about you, and induced him to will to you the fortune 
which he was going to leave to the Church. Do you not 
think I deserve some reward for all this 1 " 

"You shall have it. I swear it ! " cried the old mu- 
sician, fervently. " You shall name your own reward." 

" Good. I want your daughter." 

" Ah, traitor ! that is what you demand ! " cried the ex- 
citable old man in his shrill voice. " Never ! never ! 
never ! No ; you shall have money, but no Tommatoo, — 
no Tommatoo." 

"Tommatoo is your heir at law when you die," re- 
marked Giuseppe. 



TOMMATOO. 241 

" Certainly. I know why you want to wed with her, 
you fellow ! " 

" She will inherit very soon." 

" Eh ! " The old man did not exactly seem to compre- 
hend, but peered up into Giuseppe's face. 

'' She will come into possession in ten minutes," added 
Giuseppe, and rapidly as lightning he passed a sort of 
handkerchief across Baioccho's mouth, stifling all utter- 
ance. The old man, though thin, possessed a great te- 
nacity of muscle, and he struggled long and vigorously 
against his assailant. He twined about his legs, he 
crawled up his huge chest, he dug his bony lingers into 
his throat, all the while uttering through the gag upon 
his mouth terrible muffled cries of agony that were more 
dreadful from their being so suppressed. The youth and 
strength of Giuseppe told at last. The old man grew 
faint and almost ceased to struggle. In an instant Giu- 
seppe seized him by the waist, lifted him clear off the 
the ground, and swung him into the river. He watched 
him sink. " I think that Tommatoo is mine now," he 
muttered, as he turned and fled rapidly back through 
the stone-yard. 

Baioccho sank, but speedily came to the surface. In- 
stinctively he stretched out his hands, and suddenly one 
of them came in contact with some floating substance. 
He grasped it, and found it a drifting beam of timber 
that had become loosed from its moorings to the bank 
and was travelling with the stream. With some diffi- 
culty he got astride of it and removed his gag. His first 
impulse was to shout for help, for he could not swim, and 
he was already some distance from the bank, and he put 
all his strength into a furious cry. The sound of his own 
voice echoing over that desolate shore seemed to tell him 

16 



242 TOMMATOO. 

how little chance he had of obtaining assistance in that 
way, and, after shouting until his lungs were sore, he 
gave it up, and clung to the hope of being picked up 
by some boat. 

The tide was running out rapidly, and a wind was 
blowing down stream, so that Baioccho could tell from 
the rippling of the waves around the beam that he was 
floating fast with the current. It was very dark. On 
either side of the bank he could see the faint lights in 
the houses, and now and then the black spectral hull of 
some sloop or schooner would suddenly appear to him as 
he floated past, and then vanish. All on the river seemed 
dead. There was not a sound of life. There did not 
seem a hope for the old musician. 

Still he floated fast. Past the dreary black wharves, 
round which vessels made palisades of masts seen dimly 
against the dull sky. Past the shadowy groves of the 
Elysian Fields, that now, alas I seemed like the banks 
of Acheron. Past the cheerful Atlantic Gardens, where 
lights gleamed on the water, and people were making 
merry, while the poor old musician was floating to his 
death. Past the great hive of the city, that in the gloom 
seemed to lie upon the water exhausted with its day's 
labor. And so on out into the broad bay. Then for 
the first time Baioccho felt that he would be swept out 
to sea. He had not recoiled from his fate up to this 
time, for he was brave, and, after all, drowning was only 
death. But starvation — ah ! that thought was too hor- 
rible, and for the first time a groan escaped from the poor 
musician. He then thought of Tommatoo, of Gustave, 
of their agony at his never returning, — their vague 
sorrow for his fate, which would never be known. Then 
he prayed to God that the murderer, Giuseppe, would 



TOMMATOO. 243 

be baffled in his designs on his dear child,— and 

then — 

A dull, roaring sound along the water. A hissing of 
the air and of the sea. A red glare from what seemed 
like a fierce angry eye moving over the waves. A sparkle 
of foam, seen white through the gloom, and Baioccho saw 
the ferry-boat bearing right down on him. He shouted ; 
he tried to stand upright on the timber log, but it slipped 
and turned ; he took off his coat and flung it high in the 
air, —all to attract attention. But in vain. Closer, 
closer came the fiery eye. With what seemed to the old 
musician ever-increasing speed the sharp prow cut through 
the water. The funnel gave out short puffs of triumph, 
the wheels beat their paddles madly on the water, as if 
they knew what work they had to do, then a sudden, aw- 
ful shriek from Baioccho. The projecting ledge of the 
boat shot over him. He touched it for an instant with 
his hand, and then went under. 



HI. 

THE GRANDSON OF SNAKES. 

" Father, Gustave will be down in a few minutes, and 
we will have supper ! " cried Tommatoo, fluttering into 
the dark room like some pretty little nocturnal bird. 
" Father ! why don't you answer 1 Why, where can he 
be 1 Ah, that cognac ! He has perhaps taken too much 
while I was away, — poor father ! " and Tommatoo hastily 
lit, with a lucifer match, a little fluid lamp, and held it 
high above her head while her eyes everywhere sought 
the expected recumbent form of the old musician. 

" Why, he is not here ! " she cried, in a tone half of 



244 TOMMATOO. 

astonishment, half of alarm. " 0, where has he gone 1 
Not out into this dark, dark night. God forbid ! I will 
call Gustave " ; — and she ran toward the door of the 
apartment. But ere she quite reached it she stopped 
and drew back, for a tall, dark figure filled the little 
doorway, and a pair of bright sinister eyes reflected back 
the lamplight. 

"Ah, pretty one ! you did not expect to see me again 
to-day, did you *? " said the new-comer, in a half-mocking 
tone, and in Italian ; " but you see how it is : I am fasci- 
nated, and haunt the spot where I will find you." 

'* Signor Giuseppe, my father does not wish you to 
come here ; you know what I think, and yet you come. 
That I think is wrong " ; — and Tomrnatoo looked like a 
moralist of the Middle Ages, if one could imagine such 
a personage with beautiful blond hair, large dark-gray 
eyes, and the neatest little waist in the world. 

" Ah ! none of you appreciate me," answered Giuseppe, 
advancing into the chamber. " Your father is a good 
man, but full of prejudices. I am progressive, and 
he does not understand progress, — that is all. But I 
am a good fellow, Signorina, — a capital fellow for all 
that." 

He looked at this moment, standing close to the door 
and unclasping his heavy cloak, with his pale, unhealthy 
skin shining in the lamplight, and his eyes glistening with 
a furtive meaning, so truly the reverse of a good fellow 
that I am not surprised at the faint frown that perched 
for a moment on Tommatoo's forehead, and then suddenly 
slid off her smooth temples and was lost. 

" I am going, Signor Giuseppe," she said, making a 
movement toward the door, between which and her the 
Italian was standing. " I wish you good evening." 



TOMMATOO. 245 

" Stay a moment ! " he cried, interposing. " Where is 
the worthy Baioccho 1 " 

" He is not here. I do not know where he is. Let 
me pass, Signor. I am going to search for him." 

" Perhaps he has taken too much of the delightful 
cognac of which he is so fond," said Giuseppe, sneeringly. 

" My father is a good man, Signor ! " cried Tommatoo, 
indignantly, "and his weaknesses should be respected. 
Let me pass, sir ! " 

" Not just yet, little one. I have something to say to 
you. You know that I love you. I told you so three 
months ago, before I went to Italy. I tell you so now 
that I have returned." 

" I do not want to hear your confession, Signor. I wish 
to go and seek my father." 

" Listen to me, Tommatoo," — and he stretched his 
long arm across her till it fell like a great bar between 
her and the door. " Listen. If you become my wife, 
this is what I will do for you. I will take you to Italy, 
and you shall have a villa that the Prince Borghese might 
envy. We will have much money, — I shall be very rich 
indeed, — and all Italy shall not contain finer horses, car- 
riages, servants, than ours. I will be magnificent, Tom- 
matoo, gorgeous, princely. Perhaps, too, I will purchase 
a patent of nobility, — it is to be done; there's the 
banker Torlonia. And how would my Tommatoo like to 
sit in state and be called Principezza ? Ah ! it would 
be glorious, would it nof?" 

So excited was he with the visions he had himself con- 
jured up that Giuseppe stretched forth his arms, and, en- 
closing Tommatoo between them, drew her toward him, 
while a devilish glitter shone in his dark eyes. 

" We are alone, sweet dove," he said, in a soft voice ; 



246 TOMMATOO. 

" none in this silent house to watch us. Will you not 
vow to be my bride, — the bride of Giuseppe that loves 
you so, and who will make you a little countess 'i Ah ! 
the little one is not so cruel after all." 

But he mistook Tommatoo's terrified immobility for a 
timid though undemonstrative assent. To his utter as- 
tonishment, after a moment's silence, that young lady 
opened her mouth and shrieked, '' Gustave ! Hasten ! 
Gustave, I am in danger ! " with all the power of an ex- 
cellent set of lungs, 

"Whew! who the devil is Gustave?" muttered Giu- 
seppe, astounded. " I thought that none lived in the 
house but those two. Who the devil is this Gustave 1 " 
And as he spoke he thrust his hand inside his coat as if 
feeling for some weapon. 

There was an immediate response to Tommatoo's call, 
in the shape of the descent of a pair of boots four stairs 
at a time. In a few seconds the boots had reached the 
door, and Gustave Beaumont, who stood in them, suddenly 
appeared on the scene of action. 

" Diavolo ! " ground Giuseppe between his teeth, as he 
beheld this new apparition. Then, taking a stride back- 
ward, he seemed like some wild animal preparing for a 
spring. 

" Qit'est ce que c'est ? QiCest ce que ce Monsieur la ? " 
rapidly demanded Monsieur Gustave, looking rather omi- 
nously at Giuseppe, who, not understanding a word of 
French, preserved a grim silence. 

" Gustave ! this man persecutes me. Protect me 
from him ! " cried Tommatoo, bounding toward the young 
Frenchman and taking shelter as it were under his wing. 

" Soyez tranquille, enfant ! " said Gustave, fondly enfold- 
ing her little form with his arm. " What the devil you 



TOMMATOO. 247 

do here, sare," he continued, in English, seeing that Giu- 
seppe had not repHed to his previous interrogatories in 
French. " For why do you bring the fright to this young 
girl, sare? Who you are, sare^ I demand to know. 
Moi I Gustavo Beaumont ! " 

" I reply myself not, sir, to your interrogations, when 
they put themselves to me in a manner so insolent," an- 
swered Giuseppe, haughtily, his eyes flashing through the 
gloom of the half-lit chamber. 

" Ask him about our dear father, Gustave," cried Tom- 
matoo, earnestly, nestling up to the young musician's 
side. " I left him here a few moments since, and he has 
disappeared. I feel sure that this bad man knows some- 
thing of him. Ask him, dear Gustave." 

"One cannot know about all the world," answered 
Giuseppe, before Gustave had time to interrogate him. 
"My business is not with the old man. Look in the 
cellar where the strong waters are kept. He will be 
there." 

With a mocking laugh the Italian folded his cloak 
around him and strode toward the door. Gustave re- 
moved his arm from Tommatoo's waist, round which it 
had stolen, and placed himself resolutely between Giu- 
seppe and the door, and barred his passage. 

" You shall not depart from here until we know about 
Signor Baioccho. You are suspected a great deal." 

" Let me pass away from here," cried Giuseppe, ad- 
vancing savagely, " or, by the head of the Virgin, you will 
meet with misfortune!" And placing his hand in his 
breast he half drew a small poniard. 

Gustave saw the motion, and quick as thought sprang 
on the Italian, weaving his young, sinewy arms around 
his waist, and pressing his chin against his antagonist's 



248 TOMMATOO. 

breast until he fairly howled with pain. Tommatoo, with 
one faint moan, sank on her knees on the ground, and one 
might see, by the clasped hands and the murmuring lips, 
dimly shown in the imperfect lamp-light, that the little 
one was offering up her prayers to heaven. 

The pair now struggling were evenly matched as far as 
youth and size. But in point of endurance the Italian 
had decidedly the advantage. The sedentary life which 
the young Frenchman led had relaxed his naturally pow- 
erful muscular system ; and consequently, although capa- 
ble of a vast momentary effort, he was entirely unable 
to sustain a prolonged contest. For the space of two 
minutes nothing was heard in the room but the hard 
breathing of the struggling men ; the slipping of the feet 
on the uncarpeted floor ; the sudden stamp, as one sought 
an advantage which the other as quickly frustrated. Gus- 
tave's main object seemed to be to keep the Italian from 
using his poniard, and this he sought to effect by pressing 
him so closely in his arms as to render it an impossibility 
to use his hands. For some time he was successful in 
this ; but presently his want of tenacity of muscle showed 
itself in the relaxation of his grip and the quick recur- 
rence of his breaths, almost amounting to panting. Inch 
by inch Giuseppe loosened his arm from the Frenchman's 
grasp, and inch by inch his hand moved toward his breast 
where the poniard lay, his eyes all the while flashing with 
a light that seemed to announce his approaching ven- 
geance. In vain did Gustavo strain every nerve to hold 
his own. The large drops of sweat gathered on his fore- 
head ; the blood flowed from between his lips, bitten in 
the agony of exertion ; and his knees fairly shook with 
the power of a will that far exceeded the strength of the 
frame on which it was exercised. He could not last 



TOMMATOO. 249 

much longer. Giuseppe, in proportion as he beheld his 
adversary sinking, seemed to gain additional force. He 
at length extricated his arm. At length he grasped the 
poniard and plucked it from its sheath. Held aloft an 
instant over Gustave's head, it quivered in its descent ; 
when, with a dull, heavy thud, some enormous weight fell 
on the back part of the Italian's head, the dagger was 
dashed from his hand, and he fell stunned and senseless 
on the floor. 

" Sweet child, my life owes itself to you ! " said Gus- 
tavo, as he stood over the prostrate form of his antago- 
nist, while he gazed with intense astonishment on Tom- 
matoo, who, revealed to him by the Italian's fall, 
exhibited herself as the agent of that lucky event, as- 
sisted by an enormous bludgeon which she held in her 
hand. 

" It was an inspiration of heaven, I think," said she 
simply. " I was praying to the Virgin, when I recol- 
lected that papa's big stick was in the corner ; so I stole 
toward it, lifted it up, and struck that bad fellow with it, 
— only I did not think I could strike him so hard. I hope 
he is not very much hurt." And she looked pityingly 
down on the villain whom a moment before she would 
have gladly seen perish. 

^^^Cre nom de Dieu I He moves himself!" cried Gus- 
tavo, beholding a slight indication of returning animation 
in the body of the Italian. " Quick, Tommatoo ! ropes 
to bind him up ! Bring me great, strong twines, for he is 
very dangerous, this fellow. Ha, rascal ! you are there ! 
You lie very low now, brigand ! We will trouble our- 
selves with your care, sir. Yes, we will have the honor 
to conduct you to the bureau of the Chief of the Police, 
and there we will demand of you that you shall let us 



250 TOMMATOO. 

know all your villanies. Quick, child, — the twines! 
The fellow will get himself up very presently." 

And so, chattering a sort of mingled monologue of re- 
proach, triumph, and sarcasm, Gustave passed the rope 
which Tommatoo brought him around Giuseppe's body in 
so scientific and elaborate a manner that the wretched 
man was as incapable of motion as an Indian pappoose 
strapped to its board, and lay on the floor with nothing 
but the winking of his large, dark, villanous eyes to tell 
of his being animate. 

Now came the great question, who was to go for the 
police. If Gustave went, Tommatoo would be left alone 
in that terrible house, with that terrible man, who might 
unloose that wonderful network of bonds in which Gus- 
tave had enlaced him. If Tommatoo went, she would 
have to thread her way alone through that dreary, dan- 
gerous locality ; and she confessed she had not the cour- 
age to make the attempt. If they both went, who was 
to take care of the captive 1 So they, perforce, came to 
the conclusion that they must wait until morning ; and 
accordingly Gustave, determined not to lose sight of his 
prize, lifted him on his shoulder as one would a bale of 
goods, and, carrying him up to his own room, — the room 
in which the Pancorno resided, — threw him into a corner. 
Then he and Tommatoo sat down gloomily to speculate 
and wonder over Baioccho's disappearance. It was in 
vain that they interrogated Giuseppe. That individual 
glared at them from his corner like a coil of ropes with a 
pair of large eyes hidden somewhere in it, but would con- 
descend to no reply. And so the hours passed, as they 
gloomily watched for the day. 

Weary with speculation, and heart-sore enough with 
pondering over the fate of old Baioccho, Gustave, as the 



TOMMATOO. 251 

small hours wore on, could no longer resist his inclination 
to invoke the genius of the Pancorno to disperse the sad 
thoughts that hung like black clouds around him and 
Tommatoo ; so he sat down to that mysteriously con- 
structed instrument, and poured forth those wild improvi- 
sations that seemed to interpret some love-passage in the 
history of young iEolus. And when the sun broke faintly 
over the dreary stone-yard, and its first rays fell on the 
livid face of the Italian lying bound in the comer, it 
floated upward through the sky, buoyed by those har- 
monies that seemed to seek their native heaven. 



IV. 

THE P^AN OF THE PANCORNO. 

The th Ward Station-House. It was the early 

hour of the morning, before the over-night prisoners had 
departed to be judged by the immaculate justices pre- 
siding in the neighboring district police court, and the 
poor, sleepless-looking, blear-eyed people were emerging 
from the " lock-up " in the basement, still heavy with the 
poison of bad liquor and spotted all over the face with 
the bites of mosquitoes that abound in all police stations. 
Along the walls of the general room hung rows of glazed 
fire-caps and locust-wood clubs, while, stretched in rank 
and file on the floor beneath, one saw a quantity of India- 
rubber overshoes, splashed with the mud gathered in the 
weary night-tramp on the heels of crim.e. What stories 
of city vice spoke in those dirty, flexible shoes ! One saw 
the burglar at work with file and centre-bit, and accom- 
plice keeping watch with pricked-up ears. The file grates 
and the centre-bit cuts, and the confederate strains his 



252 TOMMATOO. 

hearing as the grasshopper leaps from the wall ; but none 
sees the dark shadows creeping round the corner, and 
the pavement yields no echo to the muffled feet ; and the 
silent overshoes steal on until, with one quick leap and 
one heavy blow with the club, the burglar and confed- 
erate lie powerless on the ground. 

The th Ward Station-House was a dreary-looking 

establishment. The police captain in plain clothes, with 
a presentation watch in his pocket, attached to a presenta- 
tion chain, and a presentation diamond ring on his finger, 
and a presentation pin in his shirt front, which having 
buttons did not seem to require it, sat on a high chair 
behind a high counter on which he measured out justice 
by the yard. Two or three sly-looking men, in plain 
clothes also, with a furtive glance in the eyes, and an air 
of always seeming to be looking round a corner that 
bespoke the detective, or " shadow," lounging on ^the 
stout chairs, picking their teeth and watching everybody, 
even the police captain, as if they were ready at any mo- 
ment to detect anybody in something illegal. A pleas- 
ant-looking chain of handcuffs hung on the wall, some 
ten or twelve pair linked together, — cold, brutal-looking 
loops of iron that seemed to regret it was wrists and not 
necks that it was their duty to clasp. Sitting on the sill 
of the deep window, which opened into the street, were 
two little children crying lustily. They had been lost or 
had run away, and in the face of the boy, a large-eyed 
French lad, some six years old, one could see the deter- 
mination working that made him preserve, when ques- 
tioned, a sullen silence as to his name and home. The 
other, a little girl, — thanks to the philoprogenitive organ 
of one of the police, — was munching a jam tart amidst 
all her grief, and slobbering the unwholesome pastry with 
her tears. 



TOMMATOO. 253 

But chief of all the figures in that melancholy room 
were three persons who had, in the charge of a policeman, 
arrived at early dawn. Deep in one corner, the farthest 
from the door, sat Giuseppe, now carefully uncorded but 
still scowling out of his cloak, as if he might dart poi- 
soned poniards out of his eyes; while before the high 
counter on which the prize police captain measured out 
his two-pennyworth of justice, stood Gustavo and Tomma- 
too, who was weeping bitterly. 

" You say that you left your father for but a few mo- 
ments, and on your return he had disappeared ? " in- 
quired the prize captain, solemnly. 

" Yes, sir ! " sobbed Tommatoo. " My dear, dear father ! 
What has become of him 1 0, that bad man ! " — a 
wicked glance at Giuseppe in the corner. 

"And when you returned you found the prisoner in 
the room where you had left your father ? " 

"Yes, sir; and I know that he know^ where my father 
is, — I see it in his eyes. 0, sir, make him tell, — make 
him tell. Pinch him until he tells, — beat him until he 
tells ! " 

The prize captain smiled, condescendingly. 

" Lieutenant ! " he said, " telegraph a description of 
this Baioccho to the chiefs office, with inquiries." 

Immediately a thin policeman commenced working the 
telegraph that lay in one comer of the room, but the 
monotonous click of the instrument was but little con- 
solation to the aching bosom of Tommatoo. 

A half-hour passed — an hour — during which Tom- 
matoo related over and over again the details of her little 
story to the prize captain. The subordinates of the office 
began to take an interest in her, and gathered round her 
as she sat nestling close to Gustave, who was completely 



254 TOMMATOO. 

amazed by the novelty of his situation, and each had a 
kind word for the Httle maiden. 

An hour passed. Ah, how dreary ! dreary to Giuseppe 
scowling in his cloak, carefully watched by two stalwart 
policemen ; dreary to Gustave, who wondered how police- 
men could live without music ; dreary to little Tomma- 
too, who, with swollen eyes, and heavy, sad heart, sorrowed 
for the old musician. 

Presently there was a bustle. A carriage drove up to 
the door with policemen on the box, and Tommatoo's 
heart fluttered. The door of the vehicle opened, and out 
tottered Baioccho, feebly singing, crowing, dancing, with 
his old eyes twinkling with cognac, and a suit of gigantic 
clothes on, out of which he seemed to be endeavoring to 
scramble. In another instant Tommatoo was in his arms. 

" Ah, mon enfant, ma fille hien aime I the old father has 
brought himself back. Per hacclio ! brought himself back 
with the joy in his heart. The assassin failed in his 
work. Ha !" 

This last exclamation was caused by a sudden rush for 
the door which Giuseppe had made the moment the old 
musician appeared. His attempt at escape was vain, 
however, for before he had made two steps he was col- 
lared, and a pair of handcuffs magically slipped over his 
wrists. He sat down again sullenly, but with a face 
white with terror. 

"Ha ! serpent that thou art ! " cried Baioccho, placing 
himself before Giuseppe and shaking his withered old fist 
at him. "Thy time has arrived. Thou wilt hang for 
this. So you thought to drown the poor old maestro who 
never harmed you 1 But no ! the God above is good, and 
when waves lifted themselves up to engulf me, and the 
boat of the passage came to knock me on the head, a 



TOMMATOO. 255 

heaven-descended rope put itself into my hand, and a 
blessed sailor pulled me up to the deck. 0, no ! I am 
not dead yet, and the sweet dove that you covet will 
find some other nest than thine ! " 

Then turning to the prize captain, the old man, still 
with one arm round his daughter, poured forth his voluble 
tale ; — how Giuseppe had flung him into the river ; how 
he was floating out to sea when the ferry-boat had come 
down on him ; and how, just in the nick of time, some 
one on board had discerned him in the water and flung 
him a rope ; — all this mixed up in his extraordinary Eng- 
lish, and interlarded with French and Italian imprecations 
on the head of Giuseppe, so that the prize captain was 
entirely bewildered, and all that he could do was to order 
the assassin into the lock-up, and bind over the old maes- 
tro to appear in evidence. This done, he and Gustave 
and Tommatoo, now chirping like a bird, went home 
together. 

I would not like to count all the joetits verves de cognac 
that the old musician took that night ; but I know that 
Baioccho on that occasion danced the most singular 
dances, and sang the most eccentric songs, and told Tom- 
matoo and Gustave at least fifty times the wondrous 
story of his adventures, and how his brother was, he 
believed, dead, and had left him all his wealth; and so 
the night closed on jubilation in the old house by the 
stone-yard. 

Strange to say, Baioccho's brother was dead and had 
left him his heir. This, it was supposed, Giuseppe had 
learned in Italy, and had hastened home with the inten- 
tion of profiting by an information of which he was the 
earliest recipient. Chance, however, frustrated his plans, 
and after a trial, in which Baioccho's eccentric evidence 



256 TOMMATOO. 

was a feature, the gates of tho Btate prison closed over 
the assassin. 

In time Baioccho realized his inheritance and bade 
farewell to the kitchen. The Pancorno was brought be- 
fore the public, and every one remembers the sensation 
it created that winter at the Antique Concerts given at 
Niblo's. Women, while listening to its wonderful strains, 
could not help noticing how handsome was the young 
Frenchman who played on it ; yet none saw the lovely 
face that every night gazed from the front row on the 
performer ; but I know that Gustavo Beaumont played 
all the better because he knew that Tommatoo, otherwise 
Madame Beaumont, was looking at him. Madame Beau- 
mont ! Tommatoo as a madame ! Can you realize it ? 
I can't. 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 257 



MOTHEE OF PEAEL. 



I MET her in India, when, during an eccentric course of 
travel, I visited the land of palanquins and hookahs. 
She was a slender, pale, spiritual-looking girl. Her figure 
swayed to and fro when she walked, like some delicate 
plant brushed by a very gentle wind. Her face betokened 
a rare susceptibility of nervous organization. Large, 
dark -gray eyes, spanned by slender arches of black eye- 
brows ; irregular and mobile features ; a mouth large and 
singularly expressive, and conveying vague hints of a 
sensual nature whenever she smiled. The paleness of her 
skin could hardly be called paleness; it was rather a 
beautiful transparency of texture, through the whiteness 
of which one beheld the underglow of life, as one sees the 
fires of a lamp hazily revealed through the white ground- 
glass shade that envelops it. Her motions were full of a 
strange and subtile grace. It positively sent a thrill of 
an indefinable nature through me to watch her moving 
across a room. It was perhaps a pleasurable sensation 
at beholding her perform so ordinary an act in so un- 
usual a manner. Every wanderer in the fields has been 
struck with delight on beholding a tuft of thistle-down 
floating calmly through the still atmosphere of a summer 
day. She possessed in the most perfect degree this aerial 
serenity of motion. With all the attributes of body, she 

17 



258 MOTHER OF PEAEL. 

seemed to move as if disembodied. It was a singular and 
paradoxical combination of the real and ideal, and therein 
I think lay the charm. 

Then her voice. It was like no voice that I ever heard 
before. It was low and sweet ; but how many hundreds 
of voices have I heard that were as low and just as sweet ! 
The charm lay in something else. Each word was uttered 
with a sort of dovelike " coo," — pray do not laugh at 
the image, for I am striving to express what after all is 
perhaps inexpressible. However, I mean to say that the 
harsh gutturals and hissing dentals of our English tongue 
were enveloped by her in a species of vocal plumage, so 
that they flew from her lips, not like pebbles or snakes, 
as they do from mine and yours, but like humming-birds, 
soft and round, and imbued with a strange fascination of 
sound. 

We fell in love, married, and Minnie agreed to share 
my travel for a year, after which we were to repair to my 
native place in Maine, and settle down into a calm, loving 
country life. 

It was during this year that onr little daughter Pearl 
was born. The way in which she came to be named 
Pearl was this. 

We were cruising in the Bay of Condatchy, on the west 
coast of Ceylon, in a small vessel which I had hired for a 
month's trip, to go where I listed. I had always a singu- 
lar desire to make myself acquainted with the details of 
the pearl fishery, and I thought this would be a good 
opportunity ; so with my wife and servants and little 
nameless child, — she was only three months old, — on 
whom, however, we showered daily a thousand unwritable 
love-titles, I set sail for the grounds of a celebrated pearl 
fishery. 



MOTHER OF PEAKL. 259 

It was a great although an idle pleasure to sit in one of 
the small coasting-boats in that cloudless and serene cli- 
mate, floating on an unrufiled sea, and watch the tawny 
natives, naked, with the exception of a small strip of 
cotton cloth wound around their loins, plunge into the 
marvellously clear waters, and after having shot down far 
beyond sight, as if they had been lead instead of flesh 
and blood, suddenly break above the surface after what 
seemed an age of immersion, holding in their hands a 
basket filled with long, uncouthly shaped bivalves, any 
of which might contain a treasure great as that which 
Cleopatra wasted in her goblet. The oysters being flung 
into the boat, a brief breathing-spell was taken, and then 
once more the dark-skinned diver darted down like some 
agile fish, to recommence his search. For the pearl 
oyster is by no means to be found in the prodigal pro- 
fusion in which his less aristocratic brethren, the mill- 
ponds and blue-points and chinkopins, exist. He is rare 
and exclusive, and does not bestow himself liberally. 
He, like all high-born castes, is not prolific. 

Sometimes a fearful moment of excitement would over- 
take us. While two or three of the pearl-divers were 
under water, the calm, glassy surface of the sea would be 
cleft by what seemed the thin blade of a sharp knife, cut- 
ting through the water with a slow, even, deadly motion. 
This we knew to be the dorsal fin of the man-eating 
shark. Nothing can give an idea of the horrible sym- 
bolism of that back fin. To a person utterly unacquainted 
with the habits of the monster, the silent, stealthy, re- 
sistless way in which that membranous blade divided the 
water would inevitably suggest a cruelty swift, unap- 
peasable, relentless. This may seem exaggerated to any 
one who has not seen the spectacle I speak of. Every 



260 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

seafaring man will admit its truth. When this ominous 
apparition became visible, all on board the fishing-boats 
were instantly in a state of excitement. The water was 
beaten with oars until it foamed. The natives shouted 
aloud with the most unearthly yells ; missiles of all kinds 
were flung at this Seeva of the ocean, and a relentless 
attack was kept up on him until the poor fellows groping 
below showed their mahogany faces above the surface. 
We were so fortunate as not to have been the spectators 
of any tragedy, but we knew from hearsay that it often 
happened that the shark — a fish, by the way, possessed 
of a rare intelligence — quietly bided his time until the 
moment the diver broke water, when there would be a 
lightning-like rush, a flash of the white belly as the brute 
turned on his side to snap, a faint cry of agony from the 
victim, and then the mahogany face would sink convulsed, 
never to rise again, while a great crimson clot of blood 
would hang suspended in the calm ocean, the red memo- 
rial of a sudden and awful fatality. 

One breathless day we were floating in our little boat 
at the pearl fishery, watching the diving. "We" means 
my wife, myself, and our little daughter, who was nestled 
in the arms of her " ayah," or colored nurse. It was one 
of those tropical mornings the glory of which is inde- 
scribable. The sea was so transparent that the boat in 
which we lay, shielded from the sun by awnings, seemed 
to hang suspended in air. The tufts of pink and white 
coral that studded the bed of the ocean beneath were as 
distinct as if they were growing at our feet. We seemed 
to be gazing upon a beautiful parterre of variegated 
candytuft. The shores, fringed with palms and patches 
of a gigantic species of cactus, which was then in bloom, 
were as still and serene as if they had been painted on 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 261 

glass. Indeed, the whole landscape looked like a beautiful 
scene beheld through a glorified stereoscope ; — eminently 
real as far as detail went, but fixed and motionless as 
death. Nothing broke the silence save the occasional 
plunge of the divers into the water, or the noise of the 
large oysters falling into the bottom of the boats. In the 
distance, on a small, narrow point of land, a strange 
crowd of human beings was visible. Oriental pearl mer- 
chants. Fakirs selling amulets. Brahmins in their dirty 
white robes, all attracted to the spot by the prospect of 
gain (as fish collect round a handful of bait flung into a 
pond), bargaining, cheating, and strangely mingling religion 
and lucre. My wife and I lay back on the cushions that 
lined the after part of our little skiff, languidly gazing on 
the sea and the sky by turns. Suddenly our attention 
was aroused by a great shout, which was followed by a 
volley of shrill cries from the pearl-fishing boats. On 
turning in that direction, the greatest excitement was 
visible among the different crews. Hands were pointed, 
white teeth glittered in the sun, and every dusky form 
was gesticulating violently. Then two or three negroes 
seized some long poles and commenced beating the water 
violently. Others flung gourds and calabashes and odd 
pieces of wood and stones in the direction of a particular 
spot that lay between the nearest fishing-boat and our- 
selves. The only thing visible in this spot was a black, 
sharp blade, thin as the blade of a pen-knife, that ap- 
peared, slowly and evenly cutting through the still water. 
No surgical instrument ever glided through human flesh 
with a more silent, cruel calm. It needed not the cry 
of " Shark ! shark ! " to tell us what it was. In a mo- 
ment we had a vivid picture of that unseen monster, 
with his small, watchful eyes, and his huge mouth with 



262 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

its double row of fangs, presented to our mental vision. 
There were three divers under water at this moment, 
while directly above them hung suspended this remorse- 
less incarnation of death. My wife clasped my hand con- 
vulsively, and became deathly pale. I stretched out the 
other hand instinctively, and grasped a revolver which 
lay beside me. I was in the act of cocking it when a 
shriek of unutterable agony from the ayah burst on our 
ears. I turned my head quick as a flash of lightning, 
and beheld her, with empty arms, hanging over the gun- 
wale of the boat, while down in the calm sea I saw a 
tiny little face, swathed in white, sinking — sinking — 
sinking ! 

What are words to paint such a crisis ? What pen, 
however vigorous, could depict the pallid, convulsed face 
NyJ • of my wife, my own agonized countenance, the awful 
despair that settled on the dark face of the ayah, as we 
three beheld the love of our lives serenely receding from 
us forever in that impassable, transparent ocean 1 My 
pistol fell from my grasp. I, who rejoiced in a vigor of 
manhood such as few attain, was struck dumb and help- 
y less. My brain whirled in its dome. Every outward 

object vanished from my sight, and all I saw was a vast, 
translucent sea and one sweet face, rosy as a sea-shell, 
shining in its depths, — shining with a vague smile that 
seemed to bid me a mute farewell as it floated away to 
death ! I was roused from a trance of anguish by the 
flitting of a dark form through the clear water, cleaving 
its way swiftly toward that darling little shape, that grew 
dimmer and dimmer every second as it settled in the sea. 
We all saw it, and the same thought struck us all. That 
terrible, deadly back fin was the key of our sudden terror. 
The shark ! A simultaneous shriek burst from our lips. 



I 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 263 

I tried to jump overboard, but was withheld by some one. 
Little use had I done so, for I could not swim a stroke. 
The dark shape glided on like a flash of light. It reached 
our treasure. In an instant all we loved on earth was 
blotted from our sight ! My heart stood still. My breath 
ceased ; life trembled on my lips. The next moment a 
dusky head shot out of the water close to our boat, — a 
dusky head whose parted lips gasped for breath, but 
whose eyes shone with the brightness of a superhuman 
joy. The second after, two tawny hands held a dripping 
white mass above water, and the dark head shouted to 
the boatmen. Another second, and the brave pearl-diver 
had clambered in and laid my little daughter at her 
mother's feet. This was the shark ! This the man-eater ! 
This hero in sun-burned hide, who, with his quick, aquatic 
sight, had seen our dear one sinking through the sea, and 
had brought her up to us again, pale and dripping, but 
still ahve ! 

What tears and what laughter fell on us three by turns 
as we named our gem rescued from the ocean " Little 
Pearl"! 



II. 

I HAD been about a year settled at my pleasant home- 
stead in Maine, when the great misfortune of my life fell 
upon me. 

My, existence was almost exceptional in its happiness. 
Independent in circumstances; master of a beautiful 
place, the natural charms of which were carefully sec- 
onded by art ; married to a woman whose refined and 
cultivated mind seemed to be in perfect accord with my 



264 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

own ; and the father of the loveliest little maiden that 
ever tottered upon tiny feet, — what more could I wish 
for'? In the summer-time we varied the pleasant mo- 
notony of our rustic life by flying visits to Newport and 
Nahant. In the winter, a month or six weeks spent in 
New York, party-going and theatre-going, surfeited us 
with the rapid life of a metropolis, but gave us food for 
conversation for months to come. The intervals were 
well filled up with farming, reading, and the social inter- 
course into which we naturally fell with the old residents 
around us. 

I said a moment ago that I was perfectly happy at this 
time. I was wrong. I was happy, but not perfectly 
happy. A vague grief overshadowed me. My wife's 
health gave me at times great concern. Charming and 
spirituelle as she was on most occasions, there were times 
when she seemed a prey to a brooding melancholy. She 
would sit for hours in the twilight, in what appeared to 
be a state of mental apathy, and at such times it was 
almost impossible to rouse her into even a moderate state 
of conversational activity. When I addressed her, she 
would languidly turn her eyes on me, droop the eyelids 
over the eyeballs, and gaze at me with a strange expres- 
sion that, I knew not why, sent a shudder through my 
limbs. It was in vain that I questioned her to ascertain 
if she suffered. She was perfectly well, she said, but 
weary. I consulted my old friend and neighbor. Doctor 
Melony, but, after a careful study of her constitution, he 
proclaimed her, after his own fashion, to be " Sound as a 
bell, sir ! sound as a bell ! " 

To me, however, there was a funereal tone in this bell. 
If it did not toll of death, it at least proclaimed disaster. 
I cannot say why those dismal forebodings should have 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 265 

possessed me. Let who will explain the many presenti- 
ments of good and bad fortune which waylay men in 
the road of life, as the witches used to waylay the trav- 
eller of old, and rise up in his path prognosticating 
or cursing. 

At times, though, Minnie, as if to cheat speculation, 
displayed a gayety and cheerfulness beyond all expecta- 
tion. She would propose little excursions to noted places 
in our neighborhood, and no eyes in the party would be 
brighter, no laugh more ringing than hers. Yet these 
bright spots were but checkers on a life of gloom ; — days 
passed in moodiness and silence ; nights of restless toss- 
ing on the couch ; and ever and anon that strange, fur- 
tive look following me as I went to and fro ! 

As the year slowly sailed through the green banks of 
summer into the flaming scenery of the fall, I resolved to 
make some attempt to dissipate this melancholy under 
which my wife so obviously labored. 

" Minnie," I said to her, one day, " I feel rather dull. 
Let us go to New York for a few weeks." 

" What for 1 " she answered, turning her face around 
slowly until her eyes rested on mine, — eyes still filled 
with that inexplicable expression ! " What for 1 To 
amuse ourselves 1 My dear Gerald, how can New York 
amuse you 1 We live in a hotel, each room of which is a 
stereotyped copy of the other. We get the same bill of 
fare — with a fresh date — every day for dinner. We 
go to parties that are a repetition of the parties we went 
to last year. The same thin-legged young man leads * the 
German,' and one could almost imagine that the stewed 
terrapin which you got for supper had been kept over 
since the previous winter. There is no novelty, — no 
nothing." 



266 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

" There is a novelty, my dear," I said, although I could 
not help smiling at her languid dissection of a New York 
season. "You love the stage, and a new, and, as I am 
told, a great actress, has appeared there. I, for my part, 
want to see her." 

" Who is she 1 But, before you answer, I know per- 
fectly well what a great American dramatic novelty is. 
She has been gifted by nature with fine eyes, a good fig- 
ure, and a voice which has a tolerable scale of notes. 
Some one, or something, puts it into her head that she 
was born into this world for the special purpose of inter- 
preting Shakespeare. She begins by reciting to her 
friends in a little village, and, owing to their encourage- 
ment, determines to take lessons from some broken-down 
actor, who ekes out an insufficient salary by giving lessons 
in elocution. Under his tuition — as she would under 
the instruction of any professor of that abominable art 
known as ' elocution ' — she learns how to display her 
voice at the expense of the sense of the author. She 
thinks of nothing but rising and falling inflections, swim- 
ming entrances and graceful exits. Her idea of great 
emotion is hysterics, and her acme of by-play is to roll 
her eyes at the audience. You listen in vain for a natu- 
ral intonation of the voice. You look in vain on the 
painted — over-painted — face for a single reflex of the 
emotions depicted by the dramatist; — emotions that, I am 
sure, when he was registering them on paper, flitted over 
his countenance, and thrilled his whole being as the au- 
roral lights shimmer over the heavens, and send a vibra- 
tion through all nature ! My dear husband, I am tired 
of your great American actress. Please go and buy me 
half a dozen dolls." 

I laughed. She was in her cynical mood, and none 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 267 

could be more sarcastic than she. But I was determined 
to gain my point. 

" But," I resumed, " the actress I am anxious to see is 
the very reverse of the too truthful picture you have 
painted. I want to see Matilda Heron." 

" And who is Matilda Heron "? " 

"Well, I can't very well answer your question defi- 
nitely, Minnie ; but this I know, that she has come from 
somewhere, and fallen like a bomb-shell in New York. 
The metaphor is not too pronounced. Her appearance 
has been an explosion. Now, you blase critic of actresses, 
here is a chance for a sensation ! Will you go % " 

"Of course I will, dear Gerald. But if I am disap- 
pointed, call on the gods to help you. I will punish you, 
if you mislead me, in some awful manner. I '11 — write 
a play, or — go on the stage myself." 

"Minnie," said I, kissing her smooth white forehead, 
" if you go on the stage, you will make a most miserable 
failure." 



III. 



We went to New York. Matilda Heron was then play- 
ing her first engagement at Wallack's Theatre. The day 
after I arrived I secured a couple of orchestra seats, and 
before the curtain rose Minnie and I were installed in our 
places, — I full of anticipation, she, as all prejudging 
critics are, determined to be terribly severe if she got 
a chance. 

We were too well bred, too well brought up» t6o well 
educated, and too cosmopolitan, to feel any qualms 
about the morality of the play. We had read it in the 



268 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

French under the title of La Dame aux Camelias, and 
it was now produced in dramatic form under the title 
of " Camille." 

If my wife did not get a chance for criticism, she at 
least got a sensation. Miss Heron's first entrance was 
wonderfully unconventional. The woman dared to come 
in upon that painted scene as if it really was the home 
apartment it was represented to be. She did not slide 
in with her face to the audience, and wait for the mockery 
that is called " a reception." She walked in easily, natu- 
rally, unwitting of any outside eyes. The petulant man- 
ner in which she took off her shawl, the commonplace 
conversational tone in which she spoke to her servant, 
were revelations to Minnie and myself. Here was a dar- 
ing reality. Here was a woman who, sacrificing for the 
moment all conventional prejudices, dared to play the 
lorette as the lorette herself plays her dramatic life, 
with all her whims, her passion, her fearlessness of conse- 
quences, her occasional vulgarities, her impertinence, her 
tenderness and self-sacrifice ! 

It was not that we did not see faults. Occasionally 
Miss Heron's accent was bad, and had a savor of Celtic 
origin. But what mattered accent, or what mattered 
elocution, when we felt ourselves in the presence of an 
inspired woman ! 

Miss Heron's Camille electrified both Minnie and my- 
self. My wife was particularly houleversee. The artist 
we were beholding had not in a very marked manner any 
of those physical advantages which Minnie had predicated 
in her onslaught on the dramatic stars. It is true that 
Miss Heron's figure was commanding, and there was 
a certain powerful light in her eyes that startled and 
thrilled ; but there was not the beauty of the " favorite 



I 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 269 

actress." The conquest that she achieved was purely 
intellectual and magnetic. 

Of course we were present at the next performance. 
It was "Medea." We then beheld the great actress 
under a new phase. In Camille she died for love ; in 
Medea she killed for love. I never saw a human being 
so rocked by emotion as was my wife during the pro- 
gress of this tragedy. Her countenance was a mirror of 
every incident and passion. She swayed to and fro under 
those gusts of indignant love that the actress sent forth 
from time to time, and which swept the house like a 
storm. When the curtain fell she sat trembling, — 
vibrating still with those thunders of passion that the 
swift lightnings of genius had awakened. She seemed 
almost in a dream, as I took her to the carriage, and dur- 
ing the drive to our hotel she was moody and silent. It 
was in vain that I tried to get her to converse about the 
play. That the actress was great, she acknowledged in 
the briefest possible sentence. Then she leaned back and 
seemed to fall into a reverie from which nothing would 
arouse her. 

I ordered supper into our sitting-room, and made Min- 
nie drink a couple of glasses of champagne in the hope 
that it would rouse her into some state of mental activity. 
All my efforts, however, were without avail. She was 
silent and strange, and occasionally shivered as if pene- 
trated with a sudden chill. Shortly after, she pleaded 
weariness and retired for the night, leaving me puzzled 
more than ever by the strangeness of her case. 

An hour or two afterward, when I went to bed, I found 
Minnie apparently asleep. Never had she seemed more 
beautiful. Her lips were like a bursting rosebud about 
to blow under the influence of a perfumed wind, just 



270 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

parted as they were by the gentle breath that came and 
went. The long, dark lashes that swept over her cheek 
gave a pensive charm to her countenance, which was 
heightened by a rich stray of nutty hair that swept 
loosely across her bosom, tossed in the restlessness of 
slumber. I printed a light kiss upon her forehead, and, 
with an unuttered prayer for her welfare, lay down to 
rest. 

I know not how long I had been asleep when I was 
awakened from a profound slumber by one of those inde- 
scribable sensations of mortal peril which seem to sweep 
over the soul, and with as it were the thrill of its pas- 
sage call louder than a trumpet. Awake ! arouse ! your 
life hangs by a hair ! That this strange physical warning 
is in all cases the result of a magnetic phenomenon I 
have not the slightest doubt. To prove it, steal softly, 
ever so softly, to the bedside of a sleeper, and, although 
no noise betrays your presence, the slumberer will almost 
invariably awaken, aroused by a magnetic perception of 
your proximity. How much more powerfully must the 
stealthy approach of one who harbors sinister designs 
affect the slumbering victim ! An antagonistic magnet- 
ism hovers near ; the whole of the subtile currents that 
course through the electrical machine known as man are 
shocked with a powerful repulsion, and the sentinel mind 
whose guard has just been relieved, and which is slumber- 
ing in its quarters, suddenly hears the rappel beaten and 
leaps to arms. 

In the midst of my deep sleep I sprang with a sudden 
bound upright, with every faculty alert. By one of those 
unaccountable mysteries of our being, I realized, before 
my eyes could be by any possibility alive to external 
objects, the presence of a gi'eat horror. Simultaneously 



1 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 271 

with this conviction, or following it so quickly as to be 
almost twin with it, I beheld the vivid flash of a knife, 
and felt an acute pain in my shoulder. The next in- 
stant all was plain, as if the scene, instead of passing in 
a half-illuminated bedroom, had occurred in the full sun- 
light of the orient. My wife was standing by my bed- 
side, her hands firmly pinioned in mine, while on the 
white coverlet lay a sharp table-knife red with the blood 
which was pouring from a deep wound in my shoulder. 
I had escaped death by a miracle. Another instant 
and the long blade would have been driven through my 
heart. 

I never was so perfectly self-possessed as on that ter- 
rible occasion. I forced Minnie to sit on the bed, while I 
looked calmly into her face. She returned my gaze with 
a sort of serene defiance. 

" Minnie," I said, " I loved you dearly. Why did you 
do this?" 

" I was weary of you," she answered, in a cold, even 
voice, — a voice so level that it seemed to be spoken on 
ruled lines, — " that is my reason." 

Great heavens ! I was not prepared for this sangui- 
nary calm. I had looked for perhaps some indication of 
somnambulism ; I had vaguely hoped even for the inco- 
herence or vehemence of speech which would have beto- 
kened a sudden insanity, — anything, everything but this 
awful avowal of a deliberate design to murder a man who 
loved her better than the life she sought ! Still I clung 
to hope. I could not believe that this gentle, refined 
creature could deliberately quit my side at midnight, pos- 
sess herself of the very knife which had been used at the 
table, across which I lavished a thousand fond attentions, 
and remorselessly endeavor to stab me to the heart. It 



272 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

must be the act of one insane, or laboring under some 
momentary hallucination. I determined to test her fur- 
ther. I adopted a tone of vehement reproach, hoping, if 
insanity was smouldering in her brain, to fan the embers 
to such a flame as would leave no doubt on my mind. 
I would rather she should be mad than feel that she 
hated me. 

" Woman! " I thundered fiercely, " you must have the 
mind of a fiend to repay my love in this manner. Beware 
of my vengeance. Your punishment shall be terrible." 

" Punish me," she answered ; and oh ! how serene and 
distant her voice sounded ! — "punish me how and when 
you will. It will not matter much." The tones were 
calm, assured, and fearless. The manner perfectly cohe- 
rent. A terrible suspicion shot across my mind. 

*'Have I a rival*?" I asked; "is it a guilty love that 
has prompted you to plan my death 1 If so, I am sorry 
you did not kill me." 

" I do not know any other man whom I love. I can- 
not tell why it is that I do not love you. You are very 
kind and considerate, but your presence wearies me. I 
sometimes see vaguely, as in a dream, my ideal of a hus- 
band, but he has no existence save in my soul, and I sup- 
pose I shall never meet him." 

" Minnie, you are mad ! " I cried, despairingly. 

**Am I^" she answered, with a faint, sad smile slowly 
overspreading her pale face, like the dawn breaking imper- 
ceptibly over a cold gray lake. " Well, you can think so 
if you will. It is all one to me." 

I never beheld such apathy, — such stoical indifference. 
Had she exhibited fierce rage, disappointment at her fail- 
ure, a mad thirst for my life-blood, I should have preferred 
it to this awful stagnation of sensibility, this frozen still- 



i 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 273 

of the heart. I felt all my nature harden suddenly 
toward her. It seemed to me as if my face became fixed 
and stern as a bronze head. 

"You are an inexplicable monster," I said, in tones 
that startled myself, they were so cold and metallic ; 
" and I shall not try to decipher you. I will use every 
endeavor to ascertain, however, whether it is some spe- 
cies of insanity that has thus afflicted you, or whether 
you are ruled by the most vicious soul that ever inhab- 
ited a human body. You shall return to my house to- 
morrow, when I will place you under the charge of Doctor 
Melony. You will live in the strictest seclusion. I need 
not tell you that, after what has happened, you must 
henceforth be a stranger to your daughter. Hands crim- 
soned with her father's blood are not those that I would 
see caressing her." 

« Very well. It is all one to me where I am, or how I 
live." 

" Go to bed." 

She went, calmly as a well-taught child, coolly turning 
over the pillow on which was sprinkled the blood from 
the wound in my shoulder, so as to present the under 
side for her beautiful, guilty head to repose on ; gently 
removed the murderous knife, which was still lying on 
the coverlet, and placed it on a little table by the side of 
the bed, and then without a word calmly composed her- 
self to sleep. 

It was inexplicable. I stanched my wound and sat 
down to think. 

What was the meaning of it all 1 I had visited many 
lunatic asylums, and had, as one of the various items 
in my course of study, read much on the phenomena 
of insanity, which had always been exceedingly interest- 

18 



274 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

ing to me for this reason : I thought it might be that 
only through the aberrated intellect can we approach 
the secrets of the normal mind. The castle, fortified 
and garrisoned at every angle and loophole, guards its 
interior mysteries ; it is only when the fortress crum- 
bles that we can force our way inside, and detect the 
secret of its masonry, its form, and the theory of its 
construction. 

But in all my researches I had never met with any symp- 
toms of a diseased mind similar to these my wife exhibited. 
There was a uniform coherence that completely puzzled 
me. Her answers to my questions were complete and 
determinate, — that is, they left no room for what is 
called " cross-examination." No man ever spent such a 
night of utter despair as I did, watching in that dimly lit 
chamber until dawn, while she, my would-be murderess, 
lay plunged in so profound and calm a slumber that she 
might have been a wearied angel rather than a self-pos- 
sessed demon. The mystery of her guilt was maddening ; 
and I sat hour after hour in my easy-chair, seeking in 
vain for a clew, until the dawn, spectral and gray, arose 
over the city. Then I packed up all our luggage, and 
wandered restlessly over the house until the usual hour 
for rising had struck. 

On returning to my room I found my wife just com- 
pleting her toilet. To my consternation and horror she 
flung herself into my arms as I entered. 

" Gerald ! " she cried, " I have been so frightened. 
What has brought all this blood on the pillow and the 
sheets ? Where have you been 1 When I awoke and 
missed you and discovered these stains, I knew not what 
to think. Are you hurt 1 What is the matter 1 " 

I stared at her. There was not a trace of conscious 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 275 

guilt in her countenance. It was the most consummate 
acting. Its very perfection made me the more relentless. 

" There is no necessity for this hypocrisy," I said ; '* it 
will not alter my resolve. We depart for home to-day. 
Our luggage is packed, the bills are all paid. Speak to 
me, I pray you, as little as possible." 

" What is it 1 Am I dreaming 1 Gerald, my dar- 
ling ! what have I done, or w^hat has come over you ? " 
She almost shrieked these queries. 

"You know as well as I do, you fair-faced monster. 
You tried to murder me last night, when I was asleep. 
There 's your mark on my shoulder. A loving signature, 
is it not 1 " 

I bared my shoulder as I spoke, and exposed the wound. 
She gazed wildly in my face for a moment, then tottered 
and fell. I lifted her up and placed her on the bed. She 
did not faint, and had strength enough left to ask me to 
leave her alone for a few moments. I quitted her with a 
glance of contempt, and went down stairs to make arrange- 
ments for our journey. After an absence of about an hour 
I returned to our apartments. I found her sitting placidly 
in an easy-chair, looking out of the window. She scarcely 
noticed my entrance, and the same old, distant look was 
on her face. 

" We start at three o'clock. Are you ready 1 " I said 
to her. 

"Yes. I need no preparation." Evenly, calmly ut- 
tered, without even turning her head to look at me. 

"You have recovered your memory, it seems," I said. 
"You wasted your histrionic talents this morning." 

" Did 1 1 " She smiled with the most perfect serenity, 
arranged herself more easily in her chair, and leaned 
back as if in a revery. I was enraged beyond endurance, 
and left the room abruptly. 



276 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

That evening saw us on our way home. Throughout 
the journey she maintained the same apathetic air. We 
scarcely exchanged a word. The instant we reached our 
house I assigned apartments to her, strictly forbidding 
her to move from them, and despatched a messenger for 
Doctor Melony. Minnie, on her part, took possession of 
her prison without a word. She did not even ask to see 
our darling little Pearl, who was a thousand times more 
beautiful and engaging than ever. 

Melony arrived, and I laid the awful facts before him. 
The poor man was terribly shocked. 

"Depend on it, it's opium," he said. "Let me see 
her." 

An hour afterward he came to me. 

" It 's not opium, and it 's not insanity," he said ; "it 
must be somnambulism. I find symptoms, however, that 
puzzle me beyond all calculation. That she is not in her 
normal condition of mind is evident ; but I cannot dis- 
cover the cause of this unnatural excitement. She is 
coherent, logical, but perfectly apathetic to all outward 
influences. At first I was certain that she was a victim 
of opium. Now I feel convinced that I was entirely 
wrong. It must be somnambulism. I will reside for a 
time in the house, and trust me to discover this mystery. 
Meanwhile she must be carefully watched." 

Melony was as good as his word. He watched her inces- 
santly, and reported to me her condition. The poor man 
was dreadfully puzzled. The strictest surveillance failed 
to elicit the slightest evidence of her taking any stimu- 
lants, although she remained almost all the time in the apa- 
thetic state which was so terrible to behold. The Doctor 
endeavored to arouse her by reproaches for her attempt 
on my life. She, in return, only smiled, and replied that 



J 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 277 

it was a matter in which she had no furth-er interest. 
Not a trace of any somnambulistic habit could be discov- 
ered. I was thoroughly wretched. I secluded myself 
from all society but that of Melony ; and had it not been 
for him and my darling little Pearl I am certain that I 
should have gone mad. The most of my days I spent 
wandering in the great woods which lay in the neighbor- 
hood of my farm, and my evenings I endeavored to divert 
with reading or a chat with the good Doctor. Yet, talk of 
what we might, the conversation would always return to 
the same melancholy topic. It was a maze of sorrow in 
which we invariably, no matter in what direction we wan- 
dered, brought up at the same spot. 



IV. 

The Doctor and myself were sitting one evening, late, in 
my library, talking gloomily enough over my domestic tra- 
gedy. He was endeavoring to persuade me to look more 
brightly on the future ; to dismiss as far as possible from 
my mind the accursed horror that dwelt in my home, and 
to remember that I had still a dear object left on which 
to centre my affections. This allusion to little Pearl, in 
such a mood as I was then in, only served to heighten 
my agony. I began immediately to revolve the chances 
that, were my wife's disease really insanity, it would be 
perpetuated in my dear child. Melony, of course, pooh- 
poohed the idea ; but with the obstinacy of grief I clung 
to it. Suddenly a pause took place in the argument, 
and the dreary sounds that fill the air in the last nights 
of autumn swept around the house. The wind soughed 
through the tree-tops, which were now almost bare, as 



278 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

if moaning at being deprived of its leafy playmates. In- 
explicable noises passed to and fro without the windows. 
Dead leaves rustled along the piazza, like the rustle of 
the garments of ghosts. Chilly draughts came from un- 
seen crevices, blowing on back and cheek till one felt as 
if some invisible lips were close behind, pouring malig- 
nant breaths on face and shoulder. Suddenly the pause 
in our conversation was filled by a noise that we knew 
came neither from air nor dry leaf. We heard sound- 
ing through the night the muffled tread of footsteps. I 
knew that, except ourselves, the household had long since 
retired to bed. By a simultaneous action we both sprang 
to our feet and rushed to a door which opened into a long 
corridor leading to the nursery, and which communicated, 
by a series of rambling passages, with the main body of 
the house. As we flung back the door a light appeared 
at the further end advancing slowly toward us. It was 
borne by a tall, white figure. It was my wife ! Calm 
and stately, and with her wonderful serene step, she 
approached. My heart was frozen when I saw spots of 
blood on her hands and night-robe. I gave a wild cry, 
and rushed past her. In another instant I was in baby's 
room. The night light was burning dimty; the col- 
ored nurse was sleeping calmly in her bed ; while, in a 
little cot in another part of the room, I saw — Ah ! how 
tell it? — I cannot ! Well, little Pearl was murdered, — 
murdered ! My darling lay — 

It was I now who was insane. I rushed back into 
the corridor to slay the fiend who had done this hor- 
rible deed. I had no mercy for her then. I would 
have killed her a thousand times over. Great Heaven ! 
She was leaning against the wall conversing as calmly 
with the Doctor as if nothing had happened ; smoothing 



I 



MOTHER OF PEARL. 279 

her hair with her reddened fingers, nonchalant as if at 
an evening party. I ran at her to crush her. Melony 
leaped between us. 

"Stop," he cried. "The secret is out"; — and as he 
spoke he held up a little silver box containing what seemed 
to be a greenish paste. "It is hasheesh, and she is con- 
fessing ! " 

Her statement was the most awful thing I ever listened 
to. It was as deliberate as a lawyer's brief. She had 
contracted this habit in the East, she said, long before I 
knew her, and could not break it off. It wound her na- 
ture in chains of steel ; by degrees it grew upon her, until 
it became her very life. Her existence lay as it were in 
a nut-shell, but that shell was to her a universe. One 
night, she continued, when she was under the influence 
of the drug, she went with me to see a play in which 
the wife abhors her husband and murders her children. 
It was " Medea." From that instant murder became 
glorified in her sight, through the medium of the spell- 
working drug. Her soul became rapt in the contempla- 
tion of the spilling of blood. I was to have been her 
first victim, Pearl her second. She ended by saying, 
with an ineffable smile, that the delight of the taking 
away of life was beyond imagination. 

I suppose I must have fainted, for when I awoke from 
what seemed oblivion I found myself in bed, with Dr. Me- 
lony by my side. He laid his finger on his lip, and whis- 
pered to me that I had been very ill, and must not talk. 
But I could not restrain myself. 

" Where is she 1 " I muttered. 

" Where she ought to be," he answered ; and then I 
caught faintly the words, " Private madhouse." 



280 MOTHER OF PEARL. 

hasheesh ! demon of a new paradise, spiritual whirl- 
wind, I know you now ! You blackened my life, you 
robbed me of all I held dear ; but you have since consoled 
me. You thought, wicked enchanter, that you had de- 
stroyed my peace forever. But I have won, through you 
yourself, the bliss you once blotted out. Vanish past ! 
Hence present ! Out upon actuality ! Hand in hand, I 
walk with the conqueror of time, and space, and suffering. 
Bend, all who hear me, to his worship ! 



THE BOHEMIAN. 281 



THE BOHEMIAN. 



I WAS launched into the world when I reached twenty- 
one, at which epoch I found myself in possession of health, 
strength, physical beauty, and boundless ambition., I 
was poor. My father had been an unsuccessful operator 
in Wall Street ; — had passed through the various vicissi- 
tudes of fortune common to his profession, and ended by 
being left a widower, with barely enough to live upon and 
to give me a collegiate education. As I was aware of 
the strenuous exertions he had made to accomplish this 
last, how he had pinched himself in a thousand ways 
to endow me with intellectual capital, I immediately felt, 
on leaving college, the necessity of burdening him no 
longer. The desire for riches entirely possessed me. I 
had no dream but wealth. Like those poor wretches 
so lately starving on the Darien Isthmus, who used to 
beguile their hunger with imaginary banquets, I consoled 
my pangs of present poverty with visions of boundless 
treasure. 

A friend of mine, who was paying-teller in one of our 
New York banks, once took me into the vaults when he 
was engaged in depositing his specie, and as I beheld the 
golden coins falling in yellow streams from his hands, a 
strange madness seemed to possess me. I became from 
that moment a prey to a morbid disorder, which, if we 



282 THE BOHEMIAN. 

had a psychological pathology, might be classed as the 
mania aurabilis. I literally saw gold, — nothing but gold. 
Walking in the country my eyes involuntarily sought 
the ground, as if hoping to pierce the sod and discover 
some hidden treasure. Coming home late at night, 
through the silent New York streets, every stray piece of 
mud or loose fragment of paper that lay upon the side- 
walk was carefully scanned; for, in spite of my better 
reason, I cherished the vague hope that some time or 
other I should light upon a splendid treasure, which, for 
want of a better claimant, would remain mine. It seemed, 
in short, as if one of those gold gnomes of the Hartz 
Mountains had taken possession of me and ruled me like 
a master^ I dreamed such dreams as would cast Sinbad's 
valley of diamonds into the shade. The very sunlight 
itself never shone upon me but the wish crossed my brain 
that I could solidify its splendid beams and coin them 
into "eagles." 

I was by profession a lawyer. Like the rest of my fra- 
ternity I had my little office, a small room on the fourth 
story in Nassau Street, with magnificent painted tin la- 
bels annoimcing my rank and title all the way up the 
stairs. Despite the fact that I had many of these labels 
fixed to the walls, and in every available corner, my legal 
threshold was virgin. No client gladdened my sight. 
Many and many a time my heart beat as I heard heavy 
footsteps ascending the stairs, but the half-dawning hope 
of employment was speedily crushed. They always 
stopped on the floor below, where a disgusting convey- 
ancer, with a large practice, had put up his shingle. So 
T passed day after day alone with my Code and Black- 
stone, and my Chitty, writing articles for the maga- 
zines on legal-looking paper, — so that in case a client 



THE BOHEMIAN. 283 

entered he might imagine I was engaged at my profes- 
sion, — by which I earned a scanty and precarious sub- 
sistence. 

I was, of course, at this period in love. That a young 
man should be very ambitious, very poor, and very unhap- 
py, and not in love, would be too glaring a contradiction 
of the usual course of worldly destinies. I was, there- 
fore, entirely and hopelessly in love. My life was divided 
between two passions, — the desire of becoming wealthy, 
and my love for Annie Deane. 

Annie was an author's daughter. Need I add, after 
this statement, that she was as poor as myself? This 
was the only point in my theory of the conquest of wealth 
on which I contradicted myself. To be consistent, I 
should have devoted myself to some of those young ladies, 
about whom it is whispered, before you are introduced, 
that " she will have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars." 
But though I had made up my mind to devote my life to 
the acquisition of wealth, and though I verily believe I 
might have parted with my soul for the same end, I had 
yet too much of the natural man in my composition to 
sacrifice my heart. 

Annie Deane was, however, such a girl as to make this 
infraction of my theory of life less remarkable. She was, 
indeed, marvellously beautiful. Not of that insipid style 
of beauty which one sees in Greek statues and London 
annuals. Her nose did not form a grand line with her 
forehead. Her mouth would scarcely have been claimed 
by Cupid as his bow ; but then, her upper lip was so 
short, and the teeth within so pearly, the brow was so 
white and full, and the throat so round, slender, and 
pliant ! and when, above all this, a pair of wondrous 
dark-gray eyes reigned in supreme and tender beauty, 



284 THE BOHEMIAN. 

I felt that a portion of the wealth of my life had already 
been acquired, in gaining the love of Annie Deane. 

Our love affair ran as smoothly as if the old adage 
never existed ; — probably for the reason that there was 
no goal in sight, for we were altogether too poor to dream 
of marriage as yet, and there did not seem very much 
probability of my achieving the success necessary to the 
fulfilment of our schemes. Annie's constitutional delica- 
cy, however, was a source of some uneasiness to me. She 
evidently possessed a very highly strung nervous organiza- 
tion, and was to the extremest degree what might be termed 
impressionable. The slightest change in the weather af- 
fected her strangely. Certain atmospheres appeared to 
possess an influence over her for better or for worse ; but 
it was in connection with social instincts, so to speak, that 
the peculiarities of her organism were so strikingly devel- 
oped. These instincts, for I cannot call them anything 
else, guided her altogether in her choice of acquaintance. 
She was accustomed to declare that, by merely touching 
a person's hand, she became conscious of liking or aver- 
sion. Upon the entrance of certain persons into a room 
where she was, even if she had never seen them before, 
her frame would shrink and shiver like a dying flower, and 
she would not recover until they had left the apartment. 
For these strange affections she could not herself account, 
and they on more than one occasion were the source of 
very bitter annoyances to herself and her parents. 

Well, things were in this state when one day, in the 
early part of June, I was sitting alone in my little office. 
The beginning of a story which I was writing lay upon 
the table. The title was elaborately written at the top 
of the page, but it seemed as if I had stuck in the mid- 
dle of the second paragraph. In the first, — for it was 



THE BOHEMIAN. 285 

an historical tale after the most approved model, — I had 
described the month, the time of da}^, and the setting 
sun. In the second, I introduced my three horsemen, 
who were riding slowly down a hill. The nose of the 
first and elder horseman, however, upset me. I could 
not for the life of me determine whether it was to be 
aquiline or Roman. 

While I was debating this important point, and swaying 
between a multitude of suggestions, there came a sharp, 
decisive knock at my door. I think, if the knock had 
come upon the nose about which I was thinking, or on 
my own, I should scarcely have been more surprised. *' A 
client!" I cried to myself. "Huzza ! the gods have at last 
laid on a pipe from Pactolus for my especial benefit." In 
reality, between ourselves, I did not say anything half so 
good ; but the exclamation, as I have written it, will 
convey some idea of the vague exultation that filled my 
soul when I heard that knock. 

" Come in ! " I cried, when I had reached down a Chitty 
and concealed my story under a second-hand brief which 
I had borrowed from a friend in the profession. " Come 
in ! " and I arranged myself in a studious and absorbed 
attitude. 

The door opened and my visitor entered. I had a sort 
of instinct that he was no client, from the first moment. 
Rich men — and who but a rich man goes to law — may 
sometimes be seedy in their attire, but it is always a pe- 
culiar and respectable seediness. The air of wealth is 
visible, I know not by what magic, beneath the most 
threadbare coat. You see at a glance that the man who 
wears it might, if he chose, be clad in fine linen. The 
seediness of the poor man is, on the other hand, equally 
unmistakable. You seem to discern instantly that his 



286 THE BOHEMIAN. 

coat is poor from necessity. My visitor, it was easy to 
perceive, was of this latter class. My hopes of profit sank 
at the sight of his pale, unshaven face, his old, shapeless 
boots, his shabby Kossuth hat, his over-coat shining with 
long wear, which, though buttoned, I could see no longer 
merited its name, for it was plain that no other coat 
lurked beneath it. Withal, this man had an air of con- 
scious power as he entered. You could see that he had 
nothing in his pockets, but then he looked as if he had 
much in his brain. 

He saluted me with a sort of careless respect as he en- 
tered. I bowed in return, and offered him the other 
chair. I had but two. 

" Can I do anything for you, sir 1 " I inquired blandly, 
still clinging to the hope of clientage. 

" Yes," said he, shortly ; " I never make purposeless 
visits." 

" Hem ! If you will be so kind as to state your case," 
— for his rudeness rather shook my faith in his poverty, — 
" I will give it my best attention." 

" I 've no doubt of that, Mr. Cranstoun," he replied, 
"for you are as much interested in it as I am." 

" Indeed ! " I exclaimed, not without some surprise and 
much interest at this sudden disclosure. " To whom 
have I the honor of speaking, then 1 " 

*' My name is Philip Brann." 

" Brann 1 — Brann 1 A resident of this city ? " 

" No. I am by birth an Englishman, but I never 
reside anywhere." 

" 0, you are a commercial agent, then, perhaps 1 " 

" I am a Bohemian." 

"A what?" 

"A Bohemian," he repeated, coolly removing the pa- 



THE BOHEMIAN. 287 

pers with which I had concealed my magazine story, and 
glancing over the commencement. " You see my habits 
are easy." 

" I see it perfectly, sir," I answered. 

" AVhen I say that I am a Bohemian, I do not wish you 
to understand that I am a Zingaro. I don't steal chick- 
ens, tell fortunes, or live in a camp. I am a social Bohe- 
mian, and fly at higher game." 

" But what has all this got to do with me V I asked, 
sharply ; for I was not a little provoked at the disap- 
pointment I experienced in the fellow's not having turned 
out to be a client. 

" Much. It is necessary that you should know some- 
thing about me before you do that which you will do." 

" 0, I am to do something, then ? " 

" Certainly. Have you read Henri Murger's Semes de 
la Vie de Boheme ? " 

" Yes." 

" Well, then, you can comprehend my life. I am 
clever, learned, witty, and tolerably good-looking. I can 
write brilliant magazine articles," — here his eye rested 
contemptuously on my historical tale, — ''I can paint pic- 
tures, and, what is more, sell the pictures I paint. I can 
compose songs, make comedies, and captivate women." 

" On my word, sir, you have a choice of professions," I 
said, sarcastically ; for the scorn with which the Bohe- 
mian had eyed my story offended me. 

" That 's it," he answered ; " I don't want a profession. 
I could make plenty of money if I chose to work, but I 
don't choose to work. I will never work. I have a con- 
tempt for labor." 

" Probably you despise money equally," I replied, with 
a sneer. 



288 THE BOHEMIAN. 

" No, I don't. To acquire money without trouble is 
the great object of my life, as to acquire it in any way or 
by any means is the great object of yours." 

" And pray, sir, how do you know that I have any such 
object 1 " I asked, in a haughty tone. 

" 0, I know it. You dream only of wealth. You in- 
tend to try and obtain it by industry. You will never 
succeed." 

" Your prophecies, sir, are more dogmatical than pleas- 
ant." 

"Don't be angry," he replied, smiling at my frowns. 
*'You shall be wealthy. I can show you the road to 
wealth. We will follow it together ! " 

The sublime assurance of this man astounded me. 
His glance, penetrating and vivid, seemed to pierce into 
my very heart. A strange and uncontrollable interest in 
him and his plans filled my breast. I burned to know 
more. 

"What is your proposal?" I asked, severely; for a 
thought at the moment flashed across me that some un- 
lawful scheme might be the aim of this singular being. 

"You need not be alarmed," he answered, as if reading 
my thoughts. " The road I wish to lead you is an honest 
one. I am too wise a man ever to become a criminal. 

"Then, Mr. Philip Brann, if you will explain your 
plans I shall feel more assured on that point." 

" Well, in the first place," he began, crossing his legs 
and taking a cigar out of a bundle that lay in one of the 
pigeon-holes of my desk, "in the first place, you must 
introduce me to the young lady to whom you are en- 
gaged, Miss Annie Deane." 

" Sir ! " I exclaimed, starting to my feet, and quivering 
with indignation at such a proposal ; " what do you 



THE BOHEMIAN. 289 

mean'? Do you think it likely that I would introduce to 
a young lady in whom I am interested a man whom I 
never saw before to-day, and who has voluntarily con- 
fessed to being a vagabond'? Sir, in spite of your uni- 
versal acquirements, I think Providence forgot to endow 
you with sense." 

" I '11 trouble you for one of those matches. Thank 
you. So you refuse to introduce me ! I knew you would. 
But I also know that ten minutes from this time you will 
be very glad to do it. Look at my eyes ! " 

The oddity of this request, and the calm assurance with 
which it was made, were too much for me. In spite of 
my anger, I burst into a fit of loud laughter. He waited 
patiently until my mirth had subsided. 

"You need not laugh," he resumed; "I am perfectly 
serious. Look at my eyes attentively, and tell me if you 
see anything strange in them." 

At such a proj^osition from any other man, I should 
have taken for granted that he was mocking me, and 
kicked him down stairs. This Bohemian, however, had 
an earnestness of manner that staggered me. I became 
serious, and I did look at his eyes. 

They were certainly very singular eyes, — the most 
singular eyes that I had ever beheld. They were long, 
gray, and of a very deep hue. Their steadiness was won- 
derful. They never moved. One might fancy that they 
were gazing into the depths of one of those Italian lakes, 
on an evening when the waters are so calm as to seem 
solid. But it was the interior of these organs — if I may 
so speak — that was so marvellous. As I gazed, I seemed 
to behold strange things passing in the deep gray distance 
which seemed to stretch infinitely away. I could have 
sworn that I saw figures moving, and landscapes wonder- 

19 



290 THE BOHEMIAN. 

fully real. My gaze seemed to be fastened to his by 
some inscrutable power; and the outer world, gradu- 
ally passing off like a cloud, left me literally living in 
that phantom region which I beheld in those mysterious 
eyes. 

I was aroused from this curious lethargy by the Bohe- 
mian's voice. It seemed to me at first as if muffled by 
distance, and sounded drowsily in my ear. I made a 
powerful effort and recalled my senses, which seemed to 
be wandering in some far-off place. 

"You are more easily affected than I imagined," re- 
marked Brann, as I stared heavily at him with a half- 
stupefied air. 

" What have you done 1 What is this lethargy that I 
feel upon me '? " I stammered out. 

"Ah! you believe now," replied Brann, coldly; "I 
thought you would. Did you observe nothing strange in 
my eyes 1" 

" Yes. I saw landscapes, and figiires, and many strange 
things. I almost thought I could distinguish Miss — 
Miss — Deane ! '* 

" Well, it is not improbable. People can behold what- 
ever they wish in my eyes." 

" But will you not explain 1 I no longer doubt the 
fact that you are possessed of extraordinary powers, but I 
must know more of you. Why do you wish to be intro- 
duced to Miss Deane'?" 

"Listen to me, Cranstoun," answered the Bohemian, 
placing his hand on my shoulder ; " I do not wish you to 
enter into any blindfold compact. I will explain all my 
views to you ; for, though I have learned to trust no man, 
I know you cannot avail yourself of any information I 
may give you without my assistance." 



THE BOHEMIAN. 291 

" So much the better," said I ; ^' for then you will not 
suspect me." 

" As you have seen," continued the Bohemian, " I pos- 
sess some remarkable powers. The origin, the causes of 
these endowments, I do not care to investigate. The sci- 
entific men of France and Germany have wearied them- 
selves in reducing the psychological phenomena of which 
I am a practical illustration to a system. They have 
failed. An arbitrary nomenclature, and a few interesting 
and suggestive experiments made by Reichenbach, are all 
the results of years of the intellectual toil of our greatest 
minds. As you will have guessed by this time, I am 
what is vulgarly called * a mesmerist.' I can throw peo- 
ple into trances, deaden the nervous susceptibilities, and 
do a thousand things by which, if I chose to turn exhib- 
itor, I could realize a fortune. But, while possessing those 
qualities which exhibit merely a commonplace superiority 
of psychical force, and which are generally to be found in 
men of a highly sympathetic organization, I yet can boast 
of unique powers such as I have never known to be 
granted to another being besides myself What these 
powers are I have now no need to inform you. You will 
very soon behold them practically illustrated. 

" Now, to come to my object. Like you, I am ambi- 
tious; but I have, unlike you, a constitutional objection 
to labor. It is sacrilege to expect men with minds like 
yours and mine to work. Why should we, — who are 
expressly and evidently created by nature to enjoy, — 
why should we, with our delicate tastes, our refined sus- 
ceptibilities, our highly wrought organizations, spend our 
lives in ministering to the enjoyment of others 'i In short, 
my friend, I do not wish to row the boat in the great 
voyage of life. I prefer sitting at the stern, with purple 



292 THE BOHEMIAN. 

awnings and ivory couches around me, and my hand upon 
the golden helm. I wish to achieve fortune at a single 
stroke. With your assistance I can do it. You will 
join me ! " 

*' Under certain conditions." 

I was not yet entirely caiTied away by the earnest elo- 
quence of this strange being. 

" I will grant what conditions you like," he continued, 
fervently. "Above all, I will set your mind at rest by 
swearing to you, whatever may be my power, never in 
any way to interfere between you and the young girl 
whom you love. I will respect her as I would a sister." 

This last promise cleared away many of my doubts. 
The history which this man gave of himself, and the 
calm manner with which he asserted his wondrous power 
over women, I confess, rendered me somewhat cautious 
about introducing him to Annie. His air was, however, 
now so frank and manly, he seemed to be so entirely ab- 
sorbed by his one idea of wealth, that I had no hesita- 
tion in declaring to him that I accepted his strange 
proposals. 

" Good ! " he exclaimed. " You are, I see, a man of 
resolution. We shall succeed. I will now let you into my 
plans. Your fiancee, Miss Annie Deane, is a clairvoyante 
of the first water. I saw her the other day at the Acad- 
emy of Design. I stood near her as she examined a pic- 
ture, and my physiognomical and psychological knowledge 
enabled me to ascertain beyond a doubt that her organiza- 
tion was the most nervous and sympathetic I had ever 
met. It is to her pure and piercing instincts that we 
shall owe our success." 

Without regarding my gestures of astonishment and 
alarm, he continued : — 



THE BOHEMIAN. 293 

" You must know that this so-called science of mesmer- 
ism is in its infancy. Its professors are, for the most 
part, incapables ; its pupils, credulous fools. As a proof 
of this, endeavor to recall, if you can, any authentic in- 
stance in which this science has been put to any practical 
use. Have these mesmeric professors and their instru,- 
ments ever been able to predict or foresee the rise of 
stocks, the course of political events, the approaches of 
disaster "i Never, my friend, save in the novels of Alexan- 
dre Dumas and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. The reason 
of this is very simple. The professors were limited in 
their power, and the somnamhules limited in their suscep- 
tibilities. When two such people as Miss Deane and my- 
self labor together, everything is possible ! " 

"0, I see ! You propose to operate in the stocks. My 
dear sir, you are mad. Where is the money % " 

" Bah ! who said anything about operating in stocks ? 
That involves labor and an office. I can afford neither. 
No, Cranstoun, we will take a shorter road to wealth than 
that. A few hours' exertion is all we need to make us 
millionnaires." 

" For heaven's sake explain ! I am wearied with cu- 
riosity deferred." 

" It is thus. This island and its vicinity abound in 
concealed treasure. Much was deposited by the early 
Dutch settlers during their wars with the Indians. Cap- 
tain Kidd and other buccaneers have made numberless 
caches containing their splendid spoils, which a violent 
death prevented their ever reclaiming. Poor Poe, you 
know, who was a Bohemian, like myself, made a story on 
the tradition, but, poor fellow ! he only dug up his treas- 
ure on paper. There was also a considerable quantity of 
plate, jewels, and coin concealed by the inhabitants of New 



294 THE BOHEMIAN. 

York and the neighborhood during the war with England. 
You may wonder at my asserting this so confidently. Let 
it suflSce for you that I know it to be so. It is my inten- 
tion to discover some of this treasure." 

Having calmly made this announcement, he folded his 
arms and gazed at me with the air of a god prepared to 
receive the ovations of his worshippers. 

"How is this to be accomplished T' I inquired, ear- 
nestly, for I had begun to put implicit faith in this man, 
who seemed equally gifted and audacious. 

" There are two ways by which we can arrive at our 
desires. The first is by the command of that power com- 
mon to somnamhules, who, having their faculties concen- 
trated on a certain object during the magnetic trance, 
become possessed of the power of inwardly beholding and 
verbally describing it, as well as the locality where it is 
situated. The other is peculiar to myself, and, as you 
have seen, consists in rendering my eyes a species of 
camera-obscura to the clairvoyante, in which she vividly 
perceives all that we would desire. This mode I have 
greater faith in than in any other, and I believe that our 
success will be found there." 

" How is it," I inquired, " that you have not before 
put this wondrous power to a like use 1 Why did you 
not enrich j^ourself long since through this means 1 " 

" Because I have never been able to find a somnambule 
sufficiently impressionable to be reliable in her evidence. 
I have tried many, but they have all deceived me. You 
confess to having beheld certain shadowy forms in my 
eyes, but you could not define them distinctly. The 
reason is simply that your magnetic organization is not 
perfect. This faculty of mine, which has so much aston- 
ished you, is nothing new. It is employed by the Egyp- 



THE BOHEMIAN. 295 

tians, who use a small glass mirror where I use my eyes. 
The testimony of M. Leon Laborde, who practised the 
art himself, Lord Prudhoe, and a host of other witnesses, 
have recorded their experience of the truth of the science 
which I preach. However, I need discourse no further 
on it. I will prove to you its verity. Now that you 
have questioned me sufficiently, will you introduce me to 
your lady-love, Mr. Henry Cranstoun 1 " 

" And will you promise me, Mr. Philip Brann, on your 
honor as a man, that you will respect my relations with 
that lady 1" 

'* I promise, upon my honor." 

" Then I yield. When shall it be 1 " 

" To-night. I hate delays." 

"This evening, then, I will meet you at the Astor 
House, and we will go together to Mr. Deane's house." 

That night, accompanied by my new friend, the Bohe- 
mian, I knocked at the door of Mr. Deane's house, in 
Amity Place. A modest neighborhood, fit for a man who 
earned his living by writing novels for cheap publishers, 
and correspondence for Sunday newspapers. Annie was, 
as usual, in the sitting-room on the first floor, and the 
lamps had not yet been lighted, so that the apartment 
seemed filled with a dull gloom as we entered. 

" Annie dear," said I, as she ran to meet me, " let me 
present to you my particular friend, Mr. Philip Brann, 
whom I have brought with me for a special purpose, 
which I will presently explain." 

She did not reply. 

Piqued by this strange silence, and feeling distressed 
about the Bohemian, who stood calmly upright, with a 
faint smile on his lips, I repeated my introduction rather 
sharply. 



296 THE BOHEMIAN. 

" Annie," I reiterated, " you could not have heard me. 
I am anxious to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Brann." 

" I heard you," she answered, in a low voice, catching 
at my coat as if to support herself, " but I feel very ill." 

" Good heavens ! what 's the matter, darling 1 Let me 
get you a glass of wine, or water." 

" Do not be alarmed," said the Bohemian, arresting my 
meditated rush to the door, " I understand Miss Deane's 
indisposition thoroughly. If she will permit me, I will 
relieve her at once." 

A low murmur of assent seemed to break involuntarily 
from Annie's lips. The Bohemian led her calmly to an 
arm-chair near the window, held her hands in his for a 
few moments, and spoke a few words to her in a low 
tone. In less than a minute she declared herself quite 
recovered. 

" It was you who caused my illness," she said to him, 
in a tone whose vivacity contrasted strangely with her 
previous languor. " I felt your presence in the room like 
a terrible electrical shock." 

" And I have cured what I caused," answered the Bo- 
hemian ; " you are very sensitive to magnetic impressions. 
So much the better." 

"Why so much the better 1 " she asked anxiously. 

" Mr. Cranstoun will explain," replied Brann, carelessly ; 
and, with a slight bow, he moved to another part of the 
dusky room, leaving Annie and myself together. 

" Who is this Mr. Brann, Henry 1 " asked Annie, as soon 
as the Bohemian was out of ear-shot. " His presence 
affects me strangely." 

"He is a strange person, who possesses wonderful 
powers," I answered ; " he is going to be of great ser- 
vice to us, Annie." 



THE BOHEMIAN. 297 

"Indeed! how so T' 

I then related to her what had passed between the Bo- 
hemian and myself at my office, and explained his object 
in coming hither on this evening. I painted in glowing 
colors the magnificent future that opened for her and 
myself, if his scheme should prove successful, and ended 
by entreating her, for my sake, to afford the Bohemian 
every facility for arriving at the goal of his desires. 

As I finished, I discovered that Annie was trembling 
violently. I caught her hand in mine. It was icy cold, 
and quivered with a sort of agitated and intermittent 
tremor, 

"0 Henry!" she exclaimed, "I feel a singular pre- 
sentiment that seems to warn me against this thing. 
Let us rest content in our poverty. Have a true heart, 
and learn to labor and to wait. You will be rich in 
time; and then we will live happily together, secure 
in the consciousness that our means have been ac- 
quired by honest industry. I fear those secret treasure- 



'* What nonsense ! " I cried ; " these are a timid girl's 
fears. It would be folly to pine patiently for years in 
poverty, when we can achieve wealth at a stroke. The 
sooner we are rich, the sooner we shall be united, and to 
postpone that moment would be to make me almost doubt 
your love. Let us try this man's power. There will be 
nothing lost if he fails." 

" Do with me as you will, Henry," she answered, " I 
will obey you in all things ; only I cannot help feeling a 
vague terror that seems to forebode misfortune." 

I laughed and bade her be of good cheer, and rang for 
lights in order that the experiment might be commenced 
at once. We three were alone. Mrs. Deane was on a 



298 THE BOHEMIAN. 

visit at Philadelphia; Mr. Deane was occupied with his 
literary labors in another room, so that we had everything 
necessary to insure the quiet which the Bohemian insisted 
should reign during his experiments. 

The Bohemian did not magnetize in the common way, 
with passes and manipulations. He sat a little in the 
shade, with his back to the strong glare of the chande- 
liers, while Annie sat opposite to him, looking full in his 
face. I sat at a little distance, at a small table, with a 
pencil and note-book, with which I was preparing to regis- 
ter such revelations as our clairvoyante should make. 

The Bohemian commenced operations by engaging Miss 
Deane in a light and desultory conversation. He seemed 
conversant with all the topics of the town, and talked of 
.the opera, and the annual exhibition at the Academy 
of Design, as glibly as if he had never done anything 
but cultivate small talk. Imperceptibly but rapidly, 
however, he gradually led the conversation to money 
matters. From these he glided into a dissertation on 
the advantages of wealth, touched on the topic of cele- 
brated misers, thence slid smoothly into a discourse on 
concealed treasures, about which he spoke in so eloquent 
and impressive a manner as to completely fascinate both 
his hearers. 

Then it was that I observed a singular change take 
place in Annie Deane's countenance. Hitherto pale and 
somewhat listless, as if suffering from mental depression, 
she suddenly became illumined as if by an inward fire. 
A rosy flush mounted to her white cheeks ; her lips, eagerly 
parted as if drinking in some intoxicating atmosphere, 
were ruddy with a supernatural health, and her eyes 
dilated as they gazed upon the Bohemian with a piercing 
intensity. 



THE BOHEMIAN. 299 

The latter ceased to speak, and after a moment's silence 
he said, gently, " Miss Deane, do you see 1 " 

" I see ! " she murmured, without altering the fixity of 
her gaze for an instant. 

" Mark well what you observe," continued the Bohe- 
mian ; " describe it with all possible accuracy." Then, 
turning to me, he said rapidly, "Take care and note 
everything." 

" I see," pursued Annie, speaking in a measured mono- 
tone and gazing into the Bohemian's eyes while she 
waved her hand gently as if keeping time to the rhythm 
of her words, — "I see a sad and mournful island on 
which the ocean beats forever. The sandy ridges are 
crowned with manes of bitter grass that wave and wave 
sorrowfully in the wind. No trees or shrubs are rooted 
in that salt and sterile soil. The burning breath of 
the Atlantic has seared the surface and made it al- 
ways barren: The surf, that whitens on the shore, 
drifts like a shower of snow across its bleak and storm- 
blown plains. It is the home of the sea-gull and the 
crane." 

" It is called Coney Island ] " the Bohemian half in- 
quired, half asserted. 

" It is the name," pursued the seeress, but in so even 
a tone that one would scarce imagine she had heard the 
question. She then continued to speak as before, still 
keeping up that gentle oscillation of her hand, which, in 
spite of my reason, seemed to me to have something terri- 
ble in its monotony. 

" I see the spot," she continued, " where what you love 
lies buried. My gaze pierces through the shifting soil 
until it finds the gold that burns in the gloom. And 
there are jewels, too, of regal size and priceless value, 



300 THE BOHEMIAN. 

hidden so deeply in the barren sand ! No sunlight has 
reached them for many years, but they burn for me as if 
they were set in the glory of an eternal day ! " 

" Describe the spot accurately ! " cried the Bohemian, 
in a commanding tone, making for the first time a su- 
premely imperative gesture. 

" There is a spot upon that lonely island," the seeress 
continued, in the unimpassioned monotone that seemed 
more awful than the thunder of an army, " where three 
huge^ sandy ridges meet. At the junction of these three 
ridges a stake of locust-wood is driven deeply down. 
When by the sun it is six o'clock, a shadow falls west- 
ward on the sand. Where this shadow ends, the treasure 
lies." 

" Can you draw 1 " asked the Bohemian. 

" She cannot," I answered hastily. The Bohemian 
raised his hand to enjoin silence. 

" I can draw noiv," the seeress replied firmly, never for 
an instant removing her eyes from the Bohemian's. 

'' Will you draw the locality you describe, if I give you 
the materials 1 " pursued the magnetizer. 

" I will." 

Brann drew a sheet of Bristol-board and a pencil from 
his pocket, and presented them to her in silence. She 
took them, and, still keeping her eyes immovably fixed on 
those of the magnetizer, began sketching rapidly. I was 
thunderstruck. Annie, I knew, had never made even the 
rudest sketch before. 

" It is done ! " she said, after a few minutes' silence, 
handing the Bristol-board back to the Bohemian. Moved 
by an inexpressible curiosity, I rose and looked over his 
shoulder. It- was wonderful ! There was a masterly 
sketch of such a locality as she described executed on the 



1 



THE BOHEMIAN. 301 

paper. But its vividness, its desolation, its evident truth, 
were so singularly given that I could scarcely believe my 
senses. I could almost hear the storms of the Atlantic 
howling over the barren sands. 

" There is something wanting yet," said the Bohemian, 
handing the sketch back to her, and smiling at my amaze- 
ment. 

" I know it," she remarked, calmly. Then, giving a 
few rapid strokes with her pencil, she handed it to him 
once more. 

The points of the compass had been added in the upper 
right-hand corner of the draiving. Nothing more was 
needed to establish the perfect accuracy of the sketch. 

" This is truly wonderful ! " I could not help exclaim- 
ing. 

"It is finished," cried the Bohemian, exultingly, and 
dashing his handkerchief two or three times across Annie's 
face. Under this new influence her countenance under- 
went a rapid change. Her eyes, a moment before dilated 
to their utmost capabilities, now suddenly became dull, 
and the eyelids drooped heavily over them. Her form, 
that during the previous scene had been rigidly erect and 
strung to its highest point of tension, seemed to collapse 
like one of those strips of gold-leaf that electricians ex- 
periment with, when the subtle fluid has ceased to course 
through its pores. Without uttering a word, and before 
the Bohemian or myself could stir, she sank like a corpse 
on the floor. 

" Wretch ! " I cried, rushing forward, " what have you 
done?" 

" Secured the object of our joint ambition," replied the 
fellow, with that imperturbable calmness that so dis- 
tinguished him. " Do not be alarmed at this fainting- 



302 THE BOHEMIAN. 

fit, my friend. Exhaustion is always the consequence of 
such violent psychological phenomena. Miss Deane will 
be perfectly recovered by to-morrow evening, and by that 
time we shall have returned, r^illiomiaires." 

"I will not leave her until she is recovered," I an- 
swered sullenly, while 1 tried to restore the dear girl to 
consciousness. 

*' Yes, but you will," asserted Brann, lighting his cigar 
as coolly as if nothing very particular had happened. 
" By dawn to-morrow, you and I will have embarked for 
Coney Island." 

" You cold-blooded savage ! " I cried passionately, " wull 
you assist me to restore your victim to consciousness 1 
If you do not, by heaven, I will blow your brains out ! " 

*'What with'? The fire-shovel ?" he answered with a 
laugh. Then, carelessly approaching, he took Annie's 
hands in his, and blew with his mouth gently upon her 
forehead. The eJOfect was almost instantaneous. Her 
eyes gradually unclosed, and she made a feeble eff'ort to 
sustain herself. 

"Call the housekeeper," said the Bohemian, "have 
Miss Deane conducted to bed, and by to-morrow evening 
all will be tranquil." 

I obeyed his directions almost mechanically, little dream- 
ing how bitterly his words would be realized. Yes, truly ! 
All would be tranquil by to-morrow evening ! 

I sat up all night with Brann. I did not leave Mr. 
Deane's until a late hour, when I saw Annie apparently 
wrapped in a peaceful slumber, and betook m^yself to a 
low tavern that remained open all night, where the Bo- 
hemian awaited me. There we arranged our plan. We 
were to take a boat at the Battery, at the earliest glimpse 
of dawn ; then, provided with a spade and shovel, a 



THE BOHEMIAN. 303 

pocket compcass, and a valise in which to transport our 
treasure, we were ^ to row down to our destination. I 
was feverish and troubled. The strange scene I had wit- 
nessed, and the singular adventure that awaited, seemed 
in combination to have set my brain on fire. My temples 
throbbed ; the cold perspiration stood upon my forehead, 
and it was in vain that I allowed myself to join the Bohe- 
mian in the huge draughts of brandy which he continu- 
ally gulped down, and which seemed to produce little or 
no effect on his iron frame. How madly, how terribly, I 
longed for the dawn ! 

At last the hour came. We took our implements in a 
carriage down to the Battery, hired a boat, and in a short 
time were out in the stream pulling lustily down the 
foggy harbor. The exercise of rowing seemed to afford 
me some relief. I pulled madly at my oar, until the 
sweat rolled in huge drops from my brow, and hung in 
trembling beads on the curls of my hair. After a long 
and wearisome pull, we landed on the island at the most 
secluded spot we could find, taking particular care that it 
was completely sheltered from the view of the solitary 
hotel, where doubtless inquisitive idlers would be found. 
After beaching our boat carefully, we struck toward the 
centre of the island, Brann seeming to possess some won- 
derful instinct for the discovery of localities, for almost 
without any trouble he walked nearly straight to the spot 
we were in search of. 

"This is the place," said he, dropping the valise which 
he carried. " Here are the three ridges, and the locust 
stake, lying exactly due north. Let us see what the true 
time is." 

So saying, he unlocked the valise and drew forth a 
small sextant, with which he proceeded to take an ob- 



304 THE BOHEMIAN. 

servation. I could not help admiring the genius of this 
man, who seemed to think of and foresee everything. 
After a few moments engaged in making calculations 
on the back of a letter, he informed me that exactly 
twenty-one minutes would elapse before the shadow of 
the locust-stake would fall on the precise spot indicated 
by the seeress. " Just time enough," said he, " to enjoy 
a cigar." 

Never did twenty-one minutes appear so long to a 
human being as these did to me. There was nothing in 
the landscape to arrest my attention. All was a wild 
waste of sand, on which a few patches of salt grass waved 
mournfully. My heart beat until I could hear its pulsa- 
tions. A thousand times I thought that my strength 
must give way beneath the weight of my -emotions, and 
that death would overtake me ere I had realized my 
dreams. I was obliged at length to dip my handkerchief 
in a marshy pool that was near me, and bind it about 
my burning temples. 

At length the shadow from the locust log fell upon the 
enchanted spot. Brann and myself seized the spades 
wildly, and dug with the fury of ghouls who were rooting 
up their loathsome repast. The light sand flew in heaps 
on all sides. The sweat rolled from our bodies. The 
hole grew deeper and deeper ! 

At last — heavens ! — a metallic sound ! My spade 
struck some hollow, sonorous substance. My limbs fairly 
shook as I flung myself into the pit, and scraped the sand 
away with my nails. I laughed like a madman, and bur- 
rowed like a mole. The Bohemian, always calm, with a 
few strokes of his shovel laid bare an old iron pot with 
a loose lid. In an instant this was smashed with a frantic 
blow of my fist, and my hands were buried in a heap of 



THE BOHEMIAN. 305 

shining gold ! Eed, glittering coins, — bracelets that 
seemed to glow like the stars in heaven, — goblets, rings, 
jewels, in countless profusion, — flashed before my eyes 
for an instant like the sparkles of an aurora. Then came 
a sudden darkness — and I remember no more ! 

How long I lay in this unconscious state I know not. 
It seemed to me that I was aroused by a sensation similar 
to that of having water poured upon me, and it was some 
moments before I could summon up sufficient strength to 
raise myself on one elbow. I looked bewilderedly around : 
I was alone ! I then strove to remember something that 
I seemed to have forgotten, when my eye fell on the hole 
in the sand, on the edge of which I found I was lying. 
A dull-red gleam as of gold seemed to glimmer from out 
the bottom. This talismanic sight restored to me every- 
thing, — my memory and my strength. I sprang to my 
feet : I gazed around. The Bohemian was nowhere visi- 
ble. Had he fled with the treasure 1 My heart failed me 
for a moment at the thought ; but no ! there lay the 
treasure gleaming still in the depths of the hole, with a 
dull-red light, like the distant glare of hell. I looked at 
the sun ; he had sunk low in the horizon, and the dews 
already falling had, with the damp sea-air, chilled me to 
the bone. While I was brushing the moisture from 
my coat, wondering at this strange conduct of the Bohe- 
mian, my eye caught sight of a slip of paper pinned 
upon my sleeve. I tore it off eagerly. It contained these 
words : — 

" I leave you. I am honest though I am selfish, and 
have divided with you the treasure which you have helped 
me to gain. You are now rich, but it may be that you will 
not be happy. Return to the city, but return in doubt. 

" The Bohemian." 

20 



308 THE BOHEMIAN. 

What terrible enigma was this that the last sentence of 
this note enshrouded'? what veiled mystery was it that 
rose before my inward vision in shapeless horror 1 I knew 
not. I could not guess, but a foreboding of some un- 
known and overwhelming disaster rushed instantly upon 
me, and seemed to crush my soul. Was it Annie, or 
was it my father 1 One thing was certain, there was no 
time to be lost in penetrating the riddle. I seized the 
valise, which the Bohemian had charitably left me, — 
how he bore away his own share of the treasure I know 
not, — and poured the gold and jewels into it with trem- 
bling hands. Then, scarce able to travel with the weight 
of the treasure, I staggered toward the beach, where we 
had left the boat. She was gone. Without wasting an 
instant, I made my way as rapidly as I could to the dis- 
tant pier, where a thin stream of white smoke informed 
me that the steamer for New York was waiting for the 
bathers. I reached her just as she was about to start, 
and, staggering to an obscure corner, sorrowfully sat down 
upon my treasure. 

With what different feelings from those which I antici- 
pated was I returning to the city. My dream of wealth 
had been realized beyond my wildest hopes. All that I 
had thought necessary to yield me the purest happiness 
was mine, and yet there was not a more miserable wretch 
in existence. Those fatal words, "Return to the city, 
but return in doubt 1 " were ever before me. 0, how I 
counted every stroke of the engine that impelled me to 
the city ! 

There was a poor, blind, humpbacked fiddler on board, 
who played all along the way. He played execrably, and 
his music made my flesh creep. As we neared the city 
he came round with his hat soliciting alms. In my reck- 



THE BOHEMIAN. 307 

lessness, I tumbled all the money I had in my pockets 
into his hands. I never shall forget the look of joy that 
flashed over his poor old seared and sightless face at 
the touch of these few dollars. *' Good heavens ! " I 
groaned, " here am T, sitting on the wealth of a kingdom, 
which is all mine, and dying of despair ; while this old 
wretch has extracted from five dollars enough of happi- 
ness to make a saint envious ! " Then my thoughts wan- 
dered back to Annie and the Bohemian, and there always 
floated before me in the air the agonizing words, " Return 
to the city, but return in doubt ! " 

The instant I reached the pier, I dashed through the 
crowd with my valise, and, jumping into the first carriage 
I met, promised a liberal bounty to the driver if he would 
drive me to Amity Place in the shortest possible space of 
time. Stimulated by this, we flew through the streets, 
and in a few moments I was standing at Mr. Deane's 
door. Even then it seemed to me as if a dark cloud hung 
over that house, above all others in the city. I rang; 
but my hand had scarcely left the bell-handle when the 
door opened, and Doctor Lott, the family physician, ap- 
peared on the threshold. He looked grave and sad. 

" We were expecting you, Mr. Cranstoun," he said, very 
mournfully. 

" Has — has anything — happened V* I stammered, 
catching at the railings for support. 

"Hush! come in." And the kind Doctor took me by 
the arm and led me like a child into the parlor. 

" Doctor, for heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter. 
I know something has happened. Is Annie dead 1 0, 
my brain will burst unless you end this suspense ! " 

" No, — not dead. But tell me, Mr. Cranstoun, has Miss 
Deane experienced any uncommon excitement lately 1 " 



308 THE BOHEMIAN. 

" Yes — yes — last night ! " I groaned wildly, " she was 
mesmerized by a wretch. 0, fool that I was to suffer it ! " 

" Ah ! that explains all," answered the Doctor. Then 
he took my hand gently in his. " Prepare yourself, Mr. 
Cranstoun," he continued, with deep pity in his voice, 
" prepare yourself for a terrible shock." 

" She is dead, then ! " I murmured. " Is she not 1 " 

" She is. She died this morning, of over-excitement, 
of the cause of which I was ignorant until now. Calm 
yourself, my dear sir. She expired blessing you." 

I tore myself from his grasp, and rushed up stairs.. The 
door of her room was open, and, in spite of myself, my 
agitated tramp softened to a stealthy footfall as I entered. 
There were two figures in the room. One was an old 
man, who knelt by the bedside of my lost love, sobbing 
bitterly. It was her father. The other lay upon the 
bed, with marble face, crossed hands, and sealed eyelids. 
All was tranquil and serene in the chamber of death. 
Even the sobbings of the father, though bitter, were muf- 
fled and subdued. And she lay on the couch, with closed 
eyes, the calmest of all ! 0, the seeress now saw more 
than earthly science could show her ! 

I felt, as I knelt by her father and kissed her cold 
hand in the agony of my heart, that I was justly pun- 
ished. 

Below stairs, in the valise, lay the treasure I had gained. 
Here, in her grave-clothes, lay the treasure I had lost. ' 



THE LOST EOOM. 309 



THE LOST EOOM. 



It was oppressively warm. The sun had long disap- 
peared, but seemed to have left its vital spirit of heat be- 
hind it. The air rested ; the leaves of the acacia-trees 
that shrouded my windows hung plumb-like on their 
delicate stalks. The smoke of my cigar scarce rose 
above my head, but hung about me in a pale blue cloud, 
which 1 had to dissipate with languid waves of my hand. 
My shirt was open at the throat, and my chest heaved 
laboriously in the effort to catch some breaths of fresher 
air. The noises of the city seemed to be wrapped in slum- 
ber, and the shrilling of the mosquitoes was the only 
sound that broke the stillness. 

As I lay with my feet elevated on the back of a chair, 
wrapped in that peculiar frame of mind in which thought 
assumes a species of lifeless motion, the strange fancy 
seized me of making a languid inventory of the principal 
articles of furniture in my room. It was a task well 
suited to the mood in which I found myself. Their forms 
were duskily defined in the dim twilight that floated shad- 
owily through the chamber ; it was no labor to note and 
particularize each, and from the place where I sat I could 
command a view of all my possessions without even turn- 
ing my head. 

There was, imprimis, that ghostly lithograph by Ca- 



310 THE LOST ROOM. 

lame. It was a mere black spot on the white wall, but 
my inner vision scrutinized every detail of the picture. 
A wild, desolate, midnight heath, with a spectral oak-tree 
in the centre of the foreground. The wind blows fiercely, 
and the jagged branches, clothed scantily with ill-grown 
leaves, are swept to the left continually by its giant force. 
A formless wrack of clouds streams across the awful sky, 
and the rain sweeps almost parallel with the horizon. 
Beyond, the heath stretches off into endless blackness, in 
the extreme of which either fancy or art has conjured up 
some undefinable shapes that seem riding into space. At 
the base of the huge oak stands a shrouded figure. His 
mantle is wound by the blast in tight folds around his 
form, and the long cock's feather in his hat is blown 
upright, till it seems as if it stood on end with fear. His 
features are not visible, for he has grasped his cloak with 
both hands, and drawn it from either side across his face. 
The picture is seemingly objectless. It tells no tale, but 
there is a weird power about it that haunts one, and it 
was for that I bought it. 

Next to the picture comes the round blot that hangs 
below it, which I know to be a smoking-cap. It has my 
coat of arms embroidered on the front, and for that reason 
I never wear it ; though, when properly arranged on my 
head, with its long blue silken tassel hanging down by my 
cheek, I believe it becomes me well. I remember the 
time when it was in the course of manufacture. I re- 
member the tiny little hands that pushed the colored 
silks so nimbly through the cloth that was stretched on 
the embroidery-frame, — the vast trouble I was put to " to 
get a colored copy of my armorial bearings for the heral- 
dic work which was to decorate the front of the band, — 
the pursings up of the little mouth, and the contractions 



THE LOST ROOM. 311 

of the young forehead, as their possessor plunged into a 
profound sea of cogitation touching the way in which the 
cloud should be represented from which the armed hand, 
that is my crest, issues, — the heavenly moment when 
the tiny hands placed it on my head, in a position that I 
could not bear for more than a few seconds, and I, king- 
like, immediately assumed my royal prerogative after the 
coronation, and instantly levied a tax on my only subject, 
which was, however, not paid unwillingly. Ah ! the cap 
is there, but the embroiderer has fled ; for Atropos was 
severing the web of life above her head while she was 
weaving that silken shelter for mine ! 

How uncouthly the huge piano that occupies the corner 
at the left of the door looms out in the uncertain twi- 
light ! I neither play nor sing, yet I own a piano. It is 
a comfort to me to look at it, and to feel that the music 
is there, although I am not able to break the spell that 
binds it. It is pleasant to know that Bellini and Mo- 
zart, Cimarosa, Porpora, Gliick, and all such, — or at least 
their souls, — sleep in that unwieldy case. There lie em- 
balmed, as it were, all operas, sonatas, oratorios, nottur- 
nos, marches, songs, and dances, that ever climbed into ex- 
istence through the four bars that wall in melody. Once 
I was entirely repaid for the investment of my funds in 
that instrument which I never use. Blokeeta, the com- 
poser, came to see me. Of course his instincts urged him 
as irresistibly to my piano as if some magnetic power lay 
within it compelling him to approach. He tuned it, he 
played on it. All night long, until the gray and spectral 
dawn rose out of the depths of the midnight, he sat and 
played, and I lay smoking by the window listening. Wild, 
unearthly, and sometimes insufferably painful, were the 
improvisations of Blokeeta. The chords of the instru- 



312 THE LOST ROOM. 

ment seemed breaking with anguish. Lost souls shrieked 
in his dismal preludes ; the half-heard utterances of spir- 
its in pain, that groped at inconceivable distances from 
anything lovely or harmonious, seemed to rise dimly up 
out of the waves of sound that gathered under his hands. 
Melancholy human love wandered out on distant heaths, 
or beneath dank and gloomy cypresses, murmuring its un- 
answered sorrow, or hateful gnomes sported and sang in 
the stagnant swamps, triumphing in unearthly tones over 
the knight whom they had lured to his death. Such was 
Blokeeta's night's entertainment ; and when he at length 
closed the piano, and hurried away through the cold morn- 
ing, he left a memory about the instrument from which 
I could never escape. 

Those snow-shoes that hang in the space between the 
mirror and the door recall Canadian wanderings, — a long 
race through the dense forests, over the frozen snow, 
through whose brittle crust the slender hoofs of the cari- 
bou that we were pursuing sank at every step, until the 
poor creature despairingly turned at bay in a small juni- 
per coppice, and we heartlessly shot him down. And I 
remember how Gabriel, the habitant, and Frangois, the 
half-breed, cut his throat, and how the hot blood rushed 
out in a torrent over the snowy soil ; and I recall the 
snow cabane that Gabriel built, where we all three slept 
so warmly; and the great fire that glowed at our feet, 
painting all kinds of demoniac shapes on the black screen 
of forest that lay without ; and the deer-steaks that we 
roasted for our breakfast ; and the savage drunkenness of 
Gabriel in the morning, he having been privately drinking 
out of my brandy-flask all the night long. 

That long, haftless dagger that dangles over the mantel- 
piece-makes my heart swell. I found it, when a boy, in 



THE LOST ROOM. 313 

a hoary old castle in which one of my maternal ancestors 
once lived. That same ancestor — who, by the way, yet 
lives in history — was a strange old sea-king, who dwelt 
on the extremest point of the southwestern coast of Ire- 
land. He owned the whole of that fertile island called 
Inniskeiran, which directly faces Cape Clear, where be- 
tween them the Atlantic rolls furiously, forming what the 
fishermen of the place call " tlie Sound." An awful place 
in w^inter is that same Sound. On certain days no boat 
can live there for a moment, and Cape Clear is frequently 
cut off for days from any communication with the main 
land. 

This old sea-king — Sir Florence O'Driscoll by name — 
passed a stormy life. From the summit of his castle he 
watched the ocean, and when any richly laden vessels, 
bound from the south to the industrious Gal way mer- 
chants, hove in sight, Sir Florence hoisted the sails of his 
galley, and it went hard with him if he did not tow into 
harbor ship and crew. In this way he lived ; not a very 
honest mode of livelihood, certainly, according to our 
modern ideas, but quite reconcilable with the morals of 
the time. As may be supposed, Sir Florence got into 
trouble. Complaints were laid against him at the English 
court by the plundered merchants, and the Irish viking 
set out for London, to plead his own cause before good 
Queen Bess, as she was called. He had one powerful 
recommendation : he was a marvellously handsome man. 
Not Celtic by descent, but half Spanish, half Danish in 
blood, he had the great northern stature with the regular 
features, flashing eyes, and dark hair of the Iberian race. 
This may account for the fact that his stay at the English 
court was much longer than was necessary, as also for 
the tradition, which a local historian mentions, that the 



314 THE LOST ROOM. 

English Queen evinced a preference for the Irish chieftain, 
of other nature than that usually shown by monarch to 
subject. 

Previous to his departure, Sir Florence had intrusted 
the care of his property to an Englishman named Hull. 
During the long absence of the knight, this person man- 
aged to ingratiate himself with the local authorities, and 
gain their favor so far that they were willing to support 
him in almost any scheme. After a protracted stay, Sir 
Florence, pardoned of all his misdeeds, returned to his 
home. Home no longer. Hull was in possession, and 
refused to yield an acre of the lands he had so nefariously 
acquired. It was no use appealing to the law, for its 
officers were in the opposite interest. It was no use 
appealing to the Queen, for she had another lover, and 
had forgotten the poor Irish knight by this time ; and so 
the viking passed the best portion of his life in unsuccessful 
attempts to reclaim his vast estates, and was eventually, 
in his old age, obliged to content himself with his castle 
by the sea and the island of Inniskeiran, the only spot of 
which the usurper was unable to deprive him. So this 
old story of my kinsman's fate looms up out of the dark- 
ness that enshrouds that haftless dagger hanging on the 
wall. 

It was somewhat after the foregoing fashion that I 
dreamily made the inventory of my personal property. 
As I turned my eyes on each object, one after the other, 
— or the places where they lay, for the room was now so 
dark that it was almost impossible to see with any dis- 
tinctness, — a crowd of memories connected with each 
rose up before me, and, perforce, I had to indulge them. 
So I proceeded but slowly, and at last my cigar shortened 
to a hot and bitter morsel that I could barely hold be- 



THE LOST EOOM. 315 

tweeu my lips, while it seemed to me that the night grew 
each moment more insufferably oppressive. While I was 
revolving some impossible means of cooling my wretched 
body, the cigar stump began to burn my lips. I flung it 
angrily through the open window, and stooped out to 
watch it falling. It first lighted on the leaves of the 
acacia, sending out a spray of red sparkles, then, rolling 
off, it fell plump on the dark walk in the garden, faintly 
illuminating for a moment the dusky trees and breathless 
flowers. Whether it w^as the contrast between the red 
flash of the cigar-stump and the silent darkness of the 
garden, or w^hether it was that I detected by the sudden 
light a faint waving of the leaves, I know not ; but some- 
thing suggested to me that the garden was cool. I will 
take a turn there, thought I, just as I am ; it cannot be 
warmer than this room, and however still the atmosphere, 
there is always a feeling of liberty and spaciousness in 
the open air, that partially supplies one's wants. With 
this idea running through my head, I arose, lit another 
cigar, and passed out into the long, intricate corridors 
that led to the main staircase. As I crossed the threshold 
of my room^ with what a different feeling I should have 
passed it had I known that I was never to set foot in it 
again ! 

I lived in a very large house, in which I occupied two 
rooms on the second floor. The house was old-fashioned, 
and all the floors communicated by a huge circular stair- 
case that w^ound up through the centre of the building, 
while at every landing long, rambling corridors stretched 
off into mysterious nooks and corners. This palace of 
mine was very high, and its resources, in the way of 
crannies and windings, seemed to be interminable. Noth- 
ing seemed to stop anywhere. Cul-de-sacs were unknown 



316 THE LOST ROOM. 

on the premises. The corridors and passages, hke mathe- 
matical lines, seemed capable of indefinite extension, and 
the object of the architect must have been to erect an 
edifice in which people might go ahead forever. The 
whole place was gloomy, not so much because it was 
large, but because an unearthly nakedness seemed to per- 
vade the structure. The staircases, corridors, halls, and 
vestibules all partook of a desert-like desolation. There 
was nothing on the walls to break the sombre monotony 
of those long vistas of shade. No carvings on the wain- 
scoting, no moulded masks peering down from the simply 
severe cornices, no marble vases on the landings. There 
was an eminent dreariness and want of life — so rare in 
an American establishment — all over the abode. It was 
Hood's haunted house put in order and newly painted. 
The servants, too, were shadowy, and chary of their visits. 
Bells rang three times before the gloomy chambermaid 
could be induced to present herself ; and the negro waiter, 
a ghoul-like looking creature from Congo, obeyed the 
summons only when one's patience was exhausted or one's 
want satisfied in some other way. When he did come, 
one felt sorry that he had not stayed away altogether, so 
sullen and savage did he appear. He moved along the 
echoless floors with a slow, noiseless shamble, until his 
dusky figure, advancing from the gloom, seemed like some 
reluctant afreet, compelled by the superior power of his 
master to disclose himself. When the doors of all the 
chambers were closed, and no light illuminated the lon^ 
corridor save the red, unwholesome glare of a small oil 
lamp on a table at the end, where late lodgers lit their 
candles, one could not by any possibility conjure up a 
sadder or more desolate prospect. 

Yet the house suited me. Of meditative and sedentary 



THE LOST ROOM. 317 

habits, I enjo3^ed the extreme quiet. There were but 
few lodgers, from which I infer that the landlord did 
not drive a very thriving trade ; and these, probably op- 
pressed by the sombre spirit of the place, were quiet and 
ghost-like in their movements. The proprietor I scarcely 
ever saw. My bills were deposited by unseen hands 
every month on my table, while I was out walking or 
riding, and my pecuniary response was intrusted to the 
attendant afreet. On the whole, when the bustling, wide- 
awake spirit of New York is taken into consideration, the 
sombre, half-vivified character of the house in which I 
lived was an anomaly that no one appreciated better than 
I who lived there. 

I felt my way down the wide, dark staircase in my pur- 
suit of zephyrs. The garden, as I entered it, did feel 
somewhat cooler than my own room, and I puffed my 
cigar along the dim, cypress-shrouded walks with a sensa- 
tion of comparative relief. It was very dark. The tall- 
growing flowers that bordered the path were so wrapped in 
gloom as to present the aspect of solid pyramidal masses, 
all the details of leaves and blossoms being buried in an 
embracing darkness, while the trees had lost all form, 
and seemed like masses of overhanging cloud. It was a 
place and time to excite the imagination ; for in the im- 
penetrable cavities of endless gloom there was room for 
the most riotous fancies to play at will. I walked and 
walked, and the echoes of my footsteps on the ungravelled 
and mossy path suggested a double feeling. I felt alone 
and yet in company at the same time. The solitariness 
of the place made itself distinct enough in the stillness, 
broken alone by the hollow reverberations of my step, 
while those very reverberations seemed to imbue me with 
an undefined feeling that I was not alone. I was not, 



318 THE LOST ROOM. 

therefore, much startled when I was suddenly accosted 
from beneath the solid darkness of an immense cypress 
by a voice saying, " Will you give me a light, sir 1 " 

" Certainly," I replied, trying in vain to distinguish the 
speaker amidst the impenetrable dark. 

Somebody advanced, and I held out my cigar. All I 
could gather definitively about the individual who thus 
accosted me was that he must have been of extremely 
small stature ; for I, who am by no means an overgrown 
man, had to stoop considerably in handing him my cigar. 
The vigorous puff that he gave his own lighted up my 
Havana for a moment, and I fancied that I caught a 
glimpse of a pale, weird countenance, immersed in a back- 
ground of long, wild hair. The flash was, however, so 
momentary that- I could not even say certainly whether 
this was an actual impression or the mere effort of imagi- 
nation to embody that which the senses had failed to 
distinguish. 

" Sir, you are out late," said this unknown to me, as 
he, with half-uttered thanks, handed me back my cigar, 
for which I had to grope in the gloom. 

" Not later than usual," I replied, dryly. 

" Hum ! you are fond of late wanderings, then 1 " 

" That is just as the fancy seizes me." 

" Do you live here 1 " 

"Yes." 

" Queer house, is n't it 1 " 

" I have only found it quiet." 

" Hum ! But you will find it queer, take my word for 
it." This was earnestly uttered ; and I felt at the same 
time a bony finger laid on my arm, that cut it sharply 
like a blunted knife. 

*' I cannot take your word for any such assertion," I 



THE LOST KOOM. 319 

replied, rudely, shaking off the bony finger with an irre- 
pressible motion of disgust. 

" No offence, no offence," muttered my unseen com- 
panion rapidly, in a strange, subdued voice, that would 
have been shrill had it been louder ; " your being angry 
does not alter the matter. You will find it a queer house. 
Everybody finds it a queer house. Do you know who 
live there 1 " 

" I never busy myself, sir, about other people's affairs," 
I answered sharply, for the individual's manner, combined 
with my utter uncertainty as to his appearance, oppressed 
me with an irksome longing to be rid of him. 

" 0, you don't 1 Well, I do. I know what they are, 
— well, well, well ! " and as he pronounced the three last 
words his voice rose with each, until, with the last, it 
reached a shrill shriek that echoed horribly among the 
lonely walks. " Do you know what they eat 1 " he con- 
tinued. 

" No, sir, — nor care." 

" 0, but you will care. You must care. You shall 
care. I '11 tell you what they are. They are enchanters. 
They are ghouls. They are cannibals. Did you never 
remark their eyes, and how they gloated on you when 
you passed *? Did you never remark the food that they 
served up at your table 1 Did you never in the dead of 
night hear muffled and unearthly footsteps gliding along 
the corridors, and stealthy hands turning the handle of 
your door 1 Does not some magnetic influence fold itself 
continually around you when they pass, and send a thrill 
through spirit and body, and a cold shiver that no sun- 
shine will chase away 1 0, you have ! You have felt 
all these things ! I know it ! " 

The earnest rapidity, the subdued tones, the eagerness 



320 THE LOST ROOM. 

of accent, with which all this was uttered, impressed me 
most uncomfortabl3^ It really seemed as if I could recall 
all those weird occurrences and influences of which he 
spoke ; and I shuddered in spite of myself in the midst 
of the impenetrable darkness that surrounded me. 

" Hum ! " said I, assuming, without knowing it, a confi- 
dential tone, " may I ask how you know these things]" 

" How I know them ? Because I am their enemy ; be- 
cause they tremble at my whisper ; because I hang upon 
their track with the perseverance of a bloodhound and 
the steal thiness of a tiger ; because — because — I was 
of them once ! " 

'' Wretch ! " I cried excitedly, for involuntarily his 
eager tones had wrought me up to a high pitch of spas- 
modic nervousness, " then you mean to say that you — " 

As I uttered this word, obeying an uncontrollable im- 
pulse, I stretched forth my hand in the direction of the 
speaker and made a blind clutch. The tips of ray fingers 
seemed to touch a surface as smooth as glass, that glided 
suddenly from under them. A sharp, angry hiss sounded 
through the gloom, followed by a whirring noise, as if 
some projectile passed rapidly by, and the next moment I 
felt instinctively that I was alone. 

A most disagreeable feeling instantly assailed me ; — a 
prophetic instinct that some terrible misfortune menaced 
me; an eager and overpowering anxiety to get back to 
my own room without loss of time. I turned and ran 
blindly along the dark cypress alley, every dusky clump 
of flowers that rose blackly in the borders making my 
heart each moment cease to beat. The echoes of my 
own footsteps seemed to redouble and assume the sounds 
of unknown pursuers following fast upon my track. The 
boughs of lilac-bushes and syringas, that here and there 



THE LOST KOOM. 321 

stretched partly across the walk, seemed to have been 
furnished suddenly with hooked hands that sought to 
grasp me as I flew by, and each moment I expected to 
behold some awful and impassable barrier fall across my 
track and wall me up forever. 

At length I reached the wide entrance. With a single 
leap I sprang up the four or five steps that formed the 
stoop, and dashed along the hall, up the wide, echoing 
stairs, and again along the dim, funereal corridors until 
I paused, breathless and panting, at the door of my room. 
Once so far, I stopped for an instant and leaned heavily 
against one of the panels, panting lustily after my late 
run. I had, however, scarcely rested my whole weight 
against the door, when it suddenly gave way, and I stag- 
gered in head-foremost. To my utter astonishment the 
room I had left in profound darkness was now a blaze of 
light. So intense was the illumination that, for a few 
seconds while the pupils of my eyes were contracting 
under the sudden change, I saw absolutely nothing save 
the dazzling glare. This fact in itself, coming on me with 
such utter suddenness, was sufficient to prolong my con- 
fusion, and it was not until after several minutes had 
elapsed that I perceived the room was not only illumi- 
nated, but occupied. And such occupants ! Amazement 
at the scene took such possession of me that I was inca- 
pable of either moving or uttering a word. All that I 
could do was to lean against the wall, and stare blankly 
at the strange picture. 

It might have been a scene out of Faublas, or Gram- 
mont's Memoirs, or happened in some palace of Minister 
Fouque. 

Round a large table in the centre of the room, where 
I had left a student-like litter of books and papers, were 

21 



322 THE LOST ROOM. 

seated half a dozen persons. Three were men and three 
were women. The table was heaped with a prodigality 
of luxuries. Luscious eastern fruits were piled up in 
silver filigree vases, through whose meshes their glowing 
rinds shone in the contrasts of a thousand hues. Small 
silver dishes that Benvenuto might have designed, filled 
with succulent and aromatic meats, were distributed upon 
a cloth of snowy damask. Bottles of every shape, slender 
ones from the Rhine, stout fellows from Holland, sturdy 
ones from Spain, and quaint basket-woven flasks from 
Italy, absolutely littered the board. Drinking-glasses of 
every size and hue filled up the interstices, and the 
thirsty German flagon stood side by side with the aerial 
bubbles of Venetian glass that rest so lightly on their 
threadlike stems. An odor of luxury and sensuality 
floated through the apartment. The lamps that burned 
in every direction seemed to diff'use a subtle incense on 
the air, and in a large vase that stood on the floor I saw 
a mass of magnolias, tuberoses, and jasmines grouped to- 
gether, stifling each other with their honeyed and heavy 
fragrance. 

The inhabitants of my room seemed beings well suited 
to so sensual an atmosphere. The women were strangely 
beautiful, and all were attired in dresses of the most fan- 
tastic devices and brilliant hues. Their figures were 
round, supple, and elastic ; their ejes dark and languish- 
ing ; their lips full, ripe, and of the richest bloom. The 
three men wore half-masks, so that all I could distinguish 
were heavy jaws, pointed beards, and brawny throats 
that rose like massive pillars out of their doublets. All 
six lay reclining on Roman couches about the table, drink- 
ing down the purple wines in large draughts, and tossing 
back their heads and laughing wildly. 



THE LOST ROOM. 323 

I stood, I suppose, for some three minutes, with my 
back against the wall staring vacantly at the bacchanal 
vision, before any of the revellers appeared to notice my 
presence. At length, without any expression to indicate 
whether I had been observed from the beginning or not, 
two of the women arose from their couches, and, approach- 
ing, took each a hand and led me to the table. I obeyed 
their motions mechanically. I sat on a couch between 
them as they indicated. I unresistingly permitted them 
to wind their arms about my neck. 

" You must drink," said one, pouring out a large glass 
of red wine, " here is Clos Vougeot of a rare vintage ; 
and here," pushing a flask of amber-hued wine before me, 
"is Lachryma Christi." 

" You must eat," said the other, drawing the silver 
dishes toward her. " Here are cutlets stewed with olives, 
and here are slices of a filet stuffed with bruised sweet 
chestnuts " ; — and as she spoke, she, without waiting for 
a reply, proceeded to help me. 

The sight of the food recalled to me the warnings I 
had received in the garden. This sudden effort of mem- 
ory restored to me my other faculties at the same instant. 
I sprang to my feet, thrusting the women from me with 
each hand. 

" Demons ! " I almost shouted, " I will have none of 
your accursed food. I know you. You are cannibals, 
you are ghouls, you are enchanters. Begone, I tell you ! 
Leave my room in peace ! " 

A shout of laughter from all six was the only effect 
that my passionate speech produced. The men rolled on 
their couches, and their half-masks quivered with the 
convulsions of their mirth. The women shrieked, and 
tossed the slender wine-glasses wildly aloft, and turned 



324 THE LOST ROOM. 

to me and flung themselves on my bosom fairly sobbing 
with laughter. 

" Yes," I continued, as soon as the noisy mirth had 
subsided, " yes, I say, leave my room instantly ! I will 
have none of your unnatural orgies here ! " 

" His room ! " shrieked the woman on my right. 

" His room ! " echoed she on my left. 

" His room ! He calls it his room ! " shouted the whole 
part}^ as they rolled once more into jocular convulsions. 

" How know you that it is your room 1 " said one of 
the men who sat opposite to me, at length, after the 
laughter had once more somewhat subsided. 

"How do I know]" I replied, indignantly. " How do 
I know my own room 1 How could I mistake it, pray 1 
There 's my furniture — my piano — " 

" He calls that a piano ! " shouted my neighbors, again 
in convulsions as I pointed to the corner where my huge 
piano, sacred to the memory of Blokeeta, used to stand. 
" 0, yes ! It is his room. There — there is his piano ! " 

The peculiar emphasis they laid on the word " piano " 
caused me to scrutinize the article I was indicating more 
thoroughly. Up to this time, though utterly amazed at 
the entrance of these people into my chamber, and con- 
necting them somewhat with the wild stories I had heard 
in the garden, I still had a sort of indefinite idea that the 
whole thing was a masquerading freak got up in my 
absence, and that the bacchanalian orgie I was witnessing 
was nothing more than a portion of some elaborate hoax 
of which I was to be the victim. But when my eyes 
turned to the corner where I had left a huge and cum- 
brous piano, and beheld a vast and sombre organ lifting 
its fluted front to the very ceiling, and convinced my- 
self, by a hurried process of memory, that it occupied the 



THE LOST KOOM. 325 

very spot in which I had left my own instrument, the 
Uttle self-possession that I had left forsook me. I gazed 
around me bewildered. 

In like manner everything was changed. In the place 
of that old haftless dagger, connected with so many his- 
toric associations personal to myself, I beheld a Turkish 
yataghan dangling by its belt of crimson silk, while the 
jewels in the hilt blazed as the lamplight played upon 
them. In the spot where hung my cherished smoking- 
cap, memorial of a buried love, a knightly casque was 
suspended, on the crest of which a golden dragon stood 
in the act of springing. That strange lithograph by Ca- 
lame was no longer a lithograph, but it seemed to me that 
the portion of the wall which it had covered, of the exact 
shape and size, had been cut out, and, in place of the pic- 
ture, a real scene on the same scale, and with real actors, 
was distinctly visible. The old oak was there, and the 
stormy sky was there ; but I saw the branches of the oak 
sway with the tempest, and the clouds drive before the 
wind. The wanderer in his cloak was gone ; but in his 
place I beheld a circle of wild figures, men and women, 
dancing with linked hands around the bole of the great 
tree, chanting some wild fragment of a song, to which the 
winds roared an unearthly chorus. The snow-shoes, too, 
on whose sinewy woof I had sped for many days amidst 
Canadian wastes, had vanished, and in their place lay a 
pair of strange up-curled Turkish slippers, that had, 
perhaps, been many a time shuffled off at the doors of 
mosques, beneath the steady blaze of an orient sun. 

All was changed. Wherever my eyes turned they 
missed familiar objects, yet encountered strange repre- 
sentatives. Still, in all the substitutes there seemed to 
me a reminiscence of what they replaced. They seemed 



326 THE LOST ROOM. 

only for a time transmuted into other shapes, and there 
lingered around them the atmosphere of what they once 
had been. Thus I could have sworn the room to have 
been mine, yet there was nothing in it that I could 
rightly claim. Everything reminded me of some for- 
mer possession that it was not. I looked for the acacia 
at the window, and, lo ! long, silken palm-leaves swayed 
in through the open lattice ; yet they had the same mo- 
tion and the same air of my favorite tree, and seemed 
to murmur to me, " Though we seem to be palm-leaves, 
yet are we acacia-leaves ; yea, those very ones on which 
you used to watch the butterflies alight and the rain pat- 
ter while you smoked and dreamed ! " So in -all things ; 
the room was, yet was not, mine ; and a sickening con- 
sciousness of my utter inability to reconcile its identity 
with its appearance overwhelmed me, and choked my 
reason. 

"Well, have you determined whether or not this is 
your room 1 " asked the girl on my left, proffering me a 
huge tumbler creaming over with champagne, and laugh- 
ing wickedly as she spoke. 

" It is mine," I answered, doggedly, striking the glass 
rudely with my hand, and dashing the aromatic wine 
over the white cloth. " I know that it is mine ; and ye 
are jugglers and enchanters who want to drive me mad." 

" Hush ! hush ! " she said, gently, not in the least an- 
gered at my rough treatment. " You are excited. Alf 
shall play something to soothe you." 

At her signal, one of the men sat down at the organ. 
After a short, wild, spasmodic prelude, he began what 
seemed to me to be a symphony of recollections. Dark 
and sombre, and all through full of quivering and in- 
tense agony, it appeared to recall a dark and dismal 



THE LOST ROOM. 327 

night, on a cold reef, around which an unseen bat ter- 
ribly audible ocean broke with eternal fury. It seemed 
as if a lonely pair were on the reef, one living, the other 
dead; one clasping his arms around the tender neck and 
naked bosom of the other, striving to warm her into life, 
when his own vitality was being each moment sucked 
from him by the icy breath of the storm. Here and 
there a terrible wailing minor key would tremble through 
the chords like the shriek of sea-birds, or the warning 
of advancing death. While the man played I could 
scarce restrain myself. It seemed to be Blokeeta whom 
I listened to, and on whom I gazed. That wondrous 
night of pleasure and pain that I had once passed listen- 
ing to him seemed to have been takeif up again at the 
spot where it had broken off, and the same hand was con- 
tinuing it. I stared at the man called Alf. There he 
sat with his cloak and doublet, and long rapier and mask 
of black velvet. But there was something in the air of 
the peaked beard, a familiar mysterj^ in the wild mass of 
raven hair that fell as if wind-blown over his shoulders, 
which riveted my memory. 

" Blokeeta ! Blokeeta ! " I shouted, starting up furiously 
from the couch on which I was lying, and bursting the 
fair arms that were linked around my neck as if they had 
been hateful chains, — " Blokeeta ! my friend ! speak to 
me, I entreat you ! Tell these horrid enchanters to leave 
me. Say that I hate them. Say that I command them 
to leave my room." 

The man at the organ stirred not in answer to my ap- 
peal. He ceased playing, and the dying sound of the last 
note he had touched faded off into a melancholy moan. 
The other men and the women burst once more into peals 
of mockino- lauohter. 



328 THE LOST ROOM. 

"Why will you persist in calling this your roomV said 
the woman next me, with a smile meant to be kind, but 
to me inexpressibly loathsome. " Have we not shown 
you by the furniture, by the general appearance of the 
place, that you are mistaken, and that this cannot be 
your apartment ] Rest content, then, with us. You are 
welcome here, and need no longer trouble yourself about 
your room." 

" Rest content !" I answered, madly ; " live with ghosts! 
eat of awful meats, and see awful sights ! Never, never ! 
You have cast some enchantment over the place that has 
disguised it ; but for all that I know it to be my room. 
You shall leave it ! " 

" Softly, softly ! " said another of the sirens. " Let us 
settle this amicably. This poor gentleman seems obsti- 
nate and inclined to make an uproar. Now we do not 
want an uproar. We love the night and its quiet ; and 
there is no night that we love so well as that on which the 
moon is coffined in clouds. Is it not so, my brothers?" 

An awful and sinister smile gleamed on the counte- 
nances of her unearthly audience, and seemed to glide 
visibly from underneath their masks. 

" Now," she continued, " I have a proposition to make. 
It would be ridiculous for us to surrender this room sim- 
ply because this gentleman states that it is his ; and yet 
I feel anxious to gratify, as far as may be fair, his wild 
assertion of ownership. A room, after all, is not much 
to us ; we can get one easily enough, but still we should 
be loath to give this apartment up to so imperious a de- 
mand. We are willing, however, to risk its loss. That 
is to say," — turning to me, — ''I propose that we play 
for the room. If you win, we will immediately surren- 
der it to you just as it stands; if, on the contrary, you 



THE LOST ROOM. 329 

lose, you shall bind yourself to depart and never molest 
us again." 

Agonized at the ever-darkening mysteries that seemed 
to thicken around me, and despairing of being able to dis- 
sipate them by the mere exercise of my own will, I caught 
almost gladly at the chance thus presented to me. The 
idea of my loss or my gain scarce entered into my calcu- 
lations. All I felt was an indefinite knowledge that I 
might, in the way proposed, regain, in an instant, that 
quiet chamber and that peace of mind of which I had 
so strangely been deprived. 

"I agree ! " I ,cried, eagerly; "I agree. Anything to 
rid myself of such unearthly company ! " 

The woman touched a small golden bell that stood near 
her on the table, and it had scarce ceased to tinkle when 
a negro dwarf entered with a silver tray on which were 
dice-boxes and dice. A shudder passed over me as I 
thought in this stunted African I could trace a resem- 
blance to the ghoul-like black servant to whose attendance 
I had been accustomed. 

" Now," said my neighbor, seizing one of the dice-boxes 
and giving me the other, "the highest wins. Shall I 
throw first r' 

I nodded assent. She rattled the dice, and I felt an 
inexpressible load lifted from my heart as she thi-ew fif- 
teen. 

" It is your turn," she said, with a mocking smile ; "but 
before you throw, I repeat the offer I made you before. 
Live with us. Be one of us. We will initiate you into 
our mysteries and enjoyments, — enjoyments of which 
you can form no idea unless you experience them. Come ; 
it is not too late yet to change your mind. Be with 



330 THE LOST ROOM. 

My reply was a fierce oath, as I rattled the dice with 
spasmodic nervousness and flung them on the board. 
They rolled over and over again, and during that brief 
instant I felt a suspense, the intensity of which I have 
never known before or since. At last they lay before me. 
A shout of the same horrible, maddening laughter rang 
in my ears. I peered in vain at the dice, but my sight 
was so confused that I could not distinguish the amount 
of the cast. This lasted for a few moments. Then my 
sight grew clear, and I sank back almost lifeless with de- 
spair as I saw that I had thrown but twelve! 

" Lost ! lost ! " screamed my neighbor, with a wild 
laugh. '' Lost ! lost ! " shouted the deep voices of the 
masked men. " Leave us, coward ! " they all cried ; "you 
are not fit to be one of us. Remember your promise ; 
leave us ! " 

Then it seemed as if some unseen power caught me by 
the shoulders and thrust me toward the door. In vain I 
resisted. In vain I screamed and shouted for help. In 
vain I implored them for pity. All the reply I had was 
those mocking peals of merriment, while, under the in- 
visible influence, I staggered like a drunken man toward 
the door. As I reached the threshold the organ pealed 
out a wild, triumphal strain. The power that impelled 
me concentrated itself into one vigorous impulse that 
sent me blindly staggering out into the echoing corridor, 
and, as the door closed swiftly behind me, I caught one 
glimpse of the apartment I had left forever. A change 
passed like a shadow over it. The lamps died out, the 
siren women and masked men vanished, the flowers, the 
fruits, the bright silver and bizarre furniture faded swiftly, 
and I saw again, for the tenth of a second, my own old 
chamber restored. There was the acacia waving darkly ; 



THE LOST ROOM. 331 

there was the table littered with books ; there was the 
ghostly lithograph, the dearly beloved smoking-cap, the 
Canadian snow-shoes, the ancestral dagger. And there, 
at the piano, organ no longer, sat Blokeeta playing. 

The next instant the door closed violently, and I was 
left standing in the corridor stunned and despairing. 

As soon as I had partially recovered my comprehension 
I rushed madly to the door, with the dim idea of beating 
it in. My fingers touched a cold and solid wall. There 
was no door ! I felt all along the corridor for many 
yards on both sides. There was not even a crevice to 
give me hope. I rushed down stairs shouting madly. 
No one answered. In the vestibule I met the negro ; I 
seized him by the collar, and demanded my room. The 
demon showed his white and awful teeth, which were filed 
into a saw-like shape, and, extricating himself from my 
grasp with a sudden jerk, fled down the passage with a 
gibbering laugh. Nothing but echo answered to my de- 
spairing shrieks. The lonely garden resounded with my 
cries as I strode madly through the dark walks, and the 
tall funereal cypresses seemed to bury me beneath their 
heavy shadows. I met no one, — could find no one. I 
had to bear my sorrow and despair alone. 

Since that awful hour I have never found my room. 
Everywhere I look for it, yet never see it. Shall I ever 
find it? 



332 THE POT OF TULIPS. 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 



Twenty-eight years ago I went to spend the summer 
at an old Dutch villa which then lifted its head from the 
wild country that, in present days, has b6en tamed down 
into a site for a Crystal Palace. Madison Square was 
then a wilderness of fields and scrub oak, here and there 
diversified with tall and stately elms. Worthy citizens 
who could aff'ord two establishments rusticated in the 
groves that then flourished where ranks of brown-stone 
porticos now form the landscape ; and the locality of 
Fortieth Street, where my summer palace stood, was 
justly looked upon as at an enterprising distance from 
the city. 

I had an imperious desire to live in this house ever 
since I can remember. I had often seen it when a boy, 
and its cool verandas and quaint garden seemed, when- 
ever I passed, to attract me irresistibly. In after years, 
when I grew up to man's estate, I was not sorry, therefore, 
when one summer, fatigued with the labors of my busi- 
ness, I beheld a notice in the papers intimating that it 
was to be let furnished. I hastened to my dear friend, 
Jaspar Joye, painted the delights of this rural retreat in 
the most glowing colors, easily obtained his assent to 
share the enjoyments and the expense with me, and a 
month afterward we were taking our ease in this new 
paradise. 



THE POT OF TULTPS. 333 

Independent of early associations, other interests at- 
tached me to this house. It was somewhat historical, 
and had given shelter to George Washington on the oc- 
casion of one of his visits to the city. Furthermore, I 
knew the descendants of the family to whom it had origi- 
nally belonged. Their history was strange and mournful, 
and it seemed to me as if their individuality was some- 
how shared by the edifice. It had been built by a Mr. 
Van Koeren, a gentleman of Holland, the younger son of 
a rich mercantile firm at the Hague, who had emigrated 
to this country in order to establish a branch of his fa- 
ther's business in New York, which even then gave indi- 
cations of the prosperity it has since reached with such 
marvellous rapidity. He had brought with him a fair 
young Belgian wife ; a loving girl, if I may believe her 
portrait, with soft brown eyes, chestnut hair, and a deep, 
placid contentment spreading over her fresh and innocent 
features. Her son, Alain Van Koeren, had her picture 
— an old miniature in a red gold frame — as well as that 
of his father ; and in truth, when looking on the two, one 
could not conceive a greater contrast than must have ex- 
isted between husband and wife. Mr. Van Koeren must 
have been a man of terrible will and gloomy tempera- 
ment. His face — in the picture — is dark and austere, 
his eyes deep-sunken, and burning as if with a slow, in- 
ward fire. The lips are thin and compressed, with much 
determination of purpose ; and his chin, boldly salient, is 
brimful of power and resolution. When first I saw those 
two pictures I sighed inwardly and thought, " Poor child ! 
you must often have sighed for the sunny meadows of 
Brussels, in the long, gloomy nights spent in the company 
of that terrible man ! " 

I was not far wrong, as I afterward discovered. Mr. 



% 

334 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

and Mrs. Van Koeren were very unhappy. Jealousy was 
his monomania, and he had scarcely been married before 
his girl-wife began to feel the oppression of a gloomy and 
ceaseless tyranny. Every man under fifty, whose hair 
was not white and whose form was erect, was an object of 
suspicion to this Dutch Bluebeard. Not that he was vul- 
garly jealous. He did not frown at his wife before stran- 
gers, or attack her with reproaches in the midst of her 
festivities. He was too well-bred a man to bare his pri- 
vate woes to the world. But at night, when the guests 
had departed and the dull light of the quaint old Flemish 
lamps but half illuminated the nuptial chamber, then it 
was that with monotonous invective Mr. Van Koeren 
crushed his wife. And Marie, weeping and silent, would 
sit on the edge of the bed listening to the cold, trenchant 
irony of her husband, who, pacing up and down the room, 
would now and then stop in his walk to gaze with his 
burning eyes upon the pallid face of his victim. Even 
the evidences that Marie gave of becoming a mother did 
not check him. He saw in that coming event, which most 
husbands anticipate with mingled joy and fear, only an 
approaching incarnation of his dishonor. He watched 
with a horrible refinement of suspicion for the arrival of 
that being in whose features he madly believed he should 
but too surely trace the evidences of his wife's crime. 

Whether it was that these ceaseless attacks wore out 
her strength, or that Providence wished to add another 
chastening misery to her burden of woe, I dare not spec- 
ulate ; but it is certain that one luckless night Mr. Van 
Koeren learned with fury that he had become a father 
two months before the allotted time. During his first 
paroxysm of rage, on the receipt of intelligence which 
seemed to confirm all his previous suspicions, it was, I 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 335 

believe, with difficulty that he was prevented from slaying 
both the innocent causes of his resentment. The caution 
of his race and the presence of the physicians induced him, 
however, to put a curb upon his furious will until reflec- 
tion suggested quite as criminal, if not as dangerous, a 
vengeance. As soon as his poor wife had recovered from 
her illness, unnaturally prolonged by the delicacy of con- 
stitution induced by previous mental suffering, she was 
astonished to find, instead of increasing his persecutions, 
that her husband had changed his tactics and treated her 
with studied neglect. He rarely spoke to her except on 
occasions when the decencies of society demanded that he 
should address her. He avoided her presence, and no 
longer inhabited the same apartments. He seemed, in 
short, to strive as much as possible to forget her existence. 
But if she did not suffer from personal ill-treatment it was 
because a punishment more acute was in store for her. If 
Mr. Van Koeren had chosen to affect to consider her be- 
neath his vengeance, it was because his hate had taken 
another direction, and seemed to have derived increased 
intensity from the alteration. It was upon the unhappy 
boy, the cause of all this misery, that the father lavished 
a terrible hatred. Mr. Van Koeren seemed determined, 
that, if this child sprang from other loins than his, the 
mournful destiny which he forced upon him should am- 
ply avenge his own existence and the infidelity of his 
mother. While the child was an infant his plan seemed 
to have been formed. Ignorance and neglect were the 
two deadly influences with which he sought to assassinate 
the moral nature of this boy ; and his terrible campaign 
against the virtue of his own son was, as he grew up, car- 
ried into execution with the most consummate generalship. 
He gave him money, but debarred him from education. 



336 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

He allowed him liberty of action, but withheld advice. It 
was in vain that his mother, who foresaw the frightful 
consequences of such a training, sought in secret by every 
means in her power to nullify her husband's attempts. 
She strove in vain to seduce her son into an ambition to 
be educated. She beheld with horror all her agonized 
efforts frustrated, and saw her son and only child becom- 
ing, even in his youth, a drunkard and a libertine. In 
the end it proved too much for her strength ; she sick- 
ened, and went home to her sunny Belgian plains. • There 
she lingered for a few months in a calm but rapid decay, 
whose calmness was broken but by the one grief ; until 
one autumn day, when the leaves were falling from the 
limes, she made a little prayer for her son to the good God, 
and died. Vain orison ! Spendthrift, gamester, libertine, 
and drunkard by turns, Alain Van Koeren's earthly des- 
tiny was unchangeable. The father, who should have 
been his guide, looked on each fresh depravity of his son's 
with a species of grim delight. Even the death of his 
wronged wife had no effect upon his fatal purpose. He 
still permitted the young man to run blindly to destruc- 
tion by the course into which he himself had led him. 

As years rolled by, and Mr. Van Koeren himself ap- 
proached to that time of life when he might soon expect 
to follow his persecuted wife, he relieved himself of the 
hateful presence of his son altogether. Even the link of 
a systematic vengeance, which had hitherto united them, 
was severed, and Alain was cast adrift without either 
money or principle. The occasion of this final separation 
between father and son was the marriage of the latter 
with a girl of humble, though honest extraction. This 
was a good excuse for the remorseless Van Koeren, so he 
availed himself of it by turning his son out of doors. 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 337 

From that time forth they never met. Alain lived a life 
of meagre dissipation, and soon died, leaving behind him 
one child, a daughter. By a coincidence natural enough, 
Mr. Van Koeren's death followed his son's almost imme- 
diately. He died as he had lived, sternly. But those 
who were around his couch in his last moments men- 
tioned some singular facts connected with the manner of 
his death. A few moments before he expired, he raised 
himself in the bed, and seemed as if conversing with some 
person invisible to the spectators. His lips moved as if 
in speech, and immediately afterward he sank back, bathed 
in a flood of tears. " Wrong ! wrong ! " he was heard to 
mutter, feebly ; then he implored passionately the forgive- 
ness of some one who, he said, was present. The death 
struggle ensued almost immediately, and in the midst of 
his agony he seemed wrestling for speech. All that could 
be heard, however, were a few broken words. " I was 
wrong. My — unfounded — For God's sake look in — 
You will find — " Having uttered these fragmentary 
sentences, he seemed to feel that the power of speech had 
passed away forever. He fixed his eyes piteously on those 
around him, and, with a great sigh of grief, expired. I 
gathered these facts from his granddaughter and Alain's 
daughter, Alice Van Koeren, who had been summoned by 
some friend to her grandfather's dying couch when it was 
too late. It was the first time she had seen him, and 
then she saw him die. 

The results of Mr. Van Koeren's death were a nine 
days' wonder to all the merchants in New York. Beyond 
a small sum in the bank, and the house in which he lived, 
which was mortgaged for its full value, Mr. Van Koeren 
had died a pauper ! To those who knew him and knew 
his affairs, this seemed inexplicable. Five or six years 

22 



338 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

before his death he had retired from business with a for- 
tune of several hundred thousand dollars. He had lived 
quietly since then, — was known not to have speculated, 
and could not have gambled. The question then was, 
where had his wealth vanished to. Search was made in 
every secretary, in every bureau, for some document 
which might throw a light on the mysterious disposition 
that he had made of his property. None was found. 
Neither will, nor certificates of stock, nor title deeds, nor 
bank accounts, were anywhere discernible. Inquiries were 
made at the offices of companies in which Mr. Van Koeren 
was known to be largely interested ; he had sold out his 
stock years ago. Real estate that had been believed to 
be his was found on investigation to have passed into 
other hands. There could be no doubt that for some 
years past Mr. Van Koeren had been steadily converting all 
his property into money, and what he had done with that 
money no one knew. Alice Van Koeren and her mother, 
who at the old gentleman's death were at first looked on 
as millionnaires, discovered, when all was over, that they 
were no better off than before. It was evident that the 
old man, determined that one whom, though bearing his 
name, he believed not to be of his blood, should never in- 
herit his wealth or any share of it, had made away with 
his fortune before his death, — a posthumous vengeance 
which was the only one by which the laws of the State of 
New York relative to inheritance could be successfully 
evaded. 

I took a peculiar interest in the case, and even helped ■ 
to make some researches for the lost property, not so 
much, I confess, from a spirit of general philanthropy, as 
from certain feelings which I experienced toward Alice 
Van Koeren, the heir to this invisible estate. I had long 






THE POT OF TULIPS. 339 

known both her and her mother, when they were hving 
in honest poverty and earning a scanty subsistence by 
their own labor; Mrs. Van Koeren working as an em- 
broideress, and Alice turning to account, as a preparatory 
governess, the education which her good mother, spite of 
her limited means, had bestowed on her. 

In a few words, then, I loved Alice Van Koeren, and 
was determined to make her my wife as soon as my means 
would allow me to support a fitting establishment. My 
passion had never been declared. I was content for the 
time with the secret consciousness of my own love, and 
the no less grateful certainty that Alice returned it, all 
unuttered as it was. I had, therefore, a double interest 
in passing the summer at the old Dutch villa, for I felt it 
to be connected somehow with Alice, and I could not for- 
get the singular desire to inhabit it which I had so often 
experienced as a boy. 

It was a lovely day in June when Jasper Joye and my- 
self took up our abode in our new residence ; and as we 
smoked our cigars on the piazza in the evening we felt 
for the first time the unalloyed pleasure with which a 
townsman breathes the pure air of the country. 

The house and grounds had a quaint sort of beauty 
that to me was eminently pleasing. Landscape garden- 
ing, in the modern acceptation of the term, was then 
almost unknown in this country, and the " laying out " of 
the garden that surrounded our new home would doubt- 
less have shocked Mr. Loudon, the late Mr. Downing, or 
Sir Thomas Dick Lauder. It was formal and artificial to 
the last degree. The beds were cut into long parallelo- 
grams, rigid and severe of aspect, and edged with prim 
rows of stiff dwarf box. The walks, of course, crossed al- 
ways at right angles, and the laurel and cypress trees that 



340 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

grew here and there were dipped into cones, and spheres, 
and rhomboids. It is true that, at the time my friend 
and I hired the house, years of neglect had restored to 
this formal garden somewhat of the raggedness of nature. 
The box edgings were rank and wild. The clipped trees, 
forgetful of geometric propriety, flourished into unauthor- 
ized boughs and rebel oifshoots. The walks were green 
with moss, and the beds of Dutch tulips, which had been 
planted in the shape of certain gorgeous birds, whose 
colors were represented by masses of blossoms, each of a 
single hue, had transgressed their limits, and the purple of 
a parrot's wings might have been seen running recklessly 
into the crimson of his head ; while, as bulbs, however 
well-bred, will create other bulbs, the flower-birds of this 
queer old Dutch garden became in time abominably dis- 
torted in shape ; — flamingoes with humps, golden pheas- 
ants with legs preternaturally elongated, macaws afilicted 
with hydrocephalus, — each species of deformity being 
proportioned to the rapidity with which the roots had 
spread in some particular direction. Still, this strange 
mixture of raggedness and formality, this conglomerate 
of nature and art, had its charms. It was pleasant to 
watch the struggle, as it were, between the opposing ele- 
ments, and to see nature triumphing by degrees in every 
direction. 

The house itself was pleasant and commodious. Rooms 
that, though not lofty, were spacious ; wide windows, and 
cool piazzas extending over the four sides of the build- 
ing; and a collection of antique carved furniture, some 
of which, from its elaborateness, might well have come 
from the chisel of Master Grinling Gibbons. There was 
a mantel-piece in the dining-room, with which I remem- 
ber being very much struck when first I came to take 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 341 

possession. It was a singular and fantastical piece of 
carving. It was a perfect tropical garden, menagerie, 
and aviary, in one. Birds, beasts, and flowers were sculp- 
tured on the wood with exquisite correctness of detail, 
and painted with the hues of nature. The Dutch taste for 
color was here fully gratified. Parrots, love-birds, scar- 
let lories, blue-faced baboons, crocodiles, passion-flowers, 
tigers, Egyptian lilies, and Brazilian butterflies, were all 
mixed in gorgeous confusion. The artist, whoever he 
was, must have been an admirable naturalist, for the 
ease and freedom of his carving were only equalled by 
the wonderful accuracy with which the different animals 
were represented. Altogether it was one of those oddi- 
ties of Dutch conception, whose strangeness was in this 
instance redeemed by the excellence of the execution. 

Such was the establishment that Jasper Joye and my- 
self were to inhabit for the summer months. 

"What a strange thing it was," said Jasper, as we 
lounged on the piazza together the night of our an-ival, 
"that old Van Koeren's property should never have 
turned up ! " 

"It is a question with some people whether he had 
any at his death," I answered. 

" Pshaw ! every one knows that he did not or could 
not have lost that with which he retired from business." 

*' It is strange," said I, thoughtfully ; " yet every possi- 
ble search has been made for documents that might throw 
light on the mystery. I have myself sought in every 
quarter for traces of this lost wealth, but in vain." 

" Perhaps he buried it," suggested Jasper, laughing ; " if 
so, we may find it here in a hole one fine morning." 

"I think it much more likely that he destroyed it," I 
replied. "You know he never could be got to believe 



342 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

that Alain Van Koeren was his son, and I believe him 
quite capable of having flung all his money into the sea 
in order to prevent those whom he considered not of his 
blood inheriting it, which they must have done under our 
laws." 

" I am sorry that Alice did not become an heiress, both 
for your sake and hers. She is a charming girl." 

Jasper, from whom I concealed nothing, knew of my 
love. 

" As to that," I answered, " it is little matter. I shall 
in a year or two be independent enough to marry, and 
can afford to let Mr. Van Koeren's cherished gold sleep 
wherever he has concealed it." 

" Well, I 'm off to bed," said Jasper, yawning. " This 
country air makes one sleepy early. Be on the lookout 
for trap-doors and all that sort of thing, old fellow. 
V^'^ho knows but the old chap's dollars will turn up. 
Good night ! " 

" Good night, Jasper ! " 

So we parted for the night. He to his room, which lay 
on the west side of the building ; I to mine on the east, 
situated at the end of a long corridor and exactly opposite 
to Jasper's. 

The night was very still and warm. The clearness 
with which I heard the song of the katydid and the 
croak of the bull-frog seemed to make the silence more 
distinct. The air was dense and breathless, and, although 
longing to throw wide my windows, T dared not ; for, out- 
side, the ominous trumpetings of an army of mosquitoes 
sounded threateningly. 

I tossed on my bed oppressed with the heat ; kicked 
the sheets into every spot where they ought not to be ; 
turned my pillow every two minutes in the hope of find- 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 343 

ing a cool side; — in short, did everything that a man 
does when he lies awake on a* very hot night and cannot 
open his window. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my miseries, and when I had 
made up my mind to fling open the casement in spite of 
the legion of mosquitoes that I knew were hungrily wait- 
ing outside, I felt a continuous stream of cold air blowing 
upon my face. Luxurious as the sensation was, I could 
not help starting as I felt it. Where could this draught 
come from ] The door was closed ; so were the windows. 
It did not come from the direction of the fireplace, and, 
even if it did, the air without was too still to produce so 
strong a current. I rose in my bed and gazed round the 
room, the whole of which, though only lit by a dim 
twilight, was still sufficiently visible. I thought at first 
it was a trick of Jasper's, who might have provided him- 
self with a bellows or a long tube ; but a careful inves- 
tigation of the apartment convinced me that no one was 
present. Besides, I had locked the door, and it was not 
likely that any one had been concealed in the room be- 
fore I entered it. It was exceedingly strange ; but still 
the draught of cool wind blew on my face and chest, 
every now and then changing its direction, — sometimes 
on one side, sometimes on the other. I am not consti- 
tutionally nervous, and had been too long accustomed 
to reflect on philosophical subjects to become the prey 
of fear in the presence of mysterious phenomena. I had 
devoted much time to the investigation of what are popu- 
larly called supernatural matters, by those who have not 
reflected or examined sufficiently to discover that none 
of these apparent miracles are S2fper-natural, but all, how- 
ever singular, directly dependent on certain natural laws. 
I became speedily convinced, therefore, as I sat up in my 



344 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

bed peering into the dim recesses of my chamber, that 
this mysterious wind was the effect or forerunner of a 
supernatural visitation, and I mentally determined to in- 
vestigate it, as it developed itself, with a philosophical 
calmness. 

" Is any one in this room 1 " I asked, as distinctly as I 
could. No reply; while the cool wind still swept over 
my cheek. I knew, in the case of Elizabeth Eslinger, 
who was visited by an apparition while in the Weinsberg 
jail, and whose singular and apparently authentic experi- 
ences were made the subject of a book by Dr. Kemer, 
that the manifestation of the spirit was invariably accom- 
panied by such a breezy sensation as I now experienced. 
I therefore gathered my will, as it were, into a focus, and 
endeavored, as much as lay in my power, to put myself 
in accord with the disembodied spirit, if such there were, 
knowing that on such conditions alone would it be enabled 
to manifest itself to me. 

Presently it seemed as if a luminous cloud was gather- 
ing in one corner of the room, — a sort of dim phos- 
phoric vapor, shadowy and ill-defined. It changed its po- 
sition frequently, sometimes coming nearer and at others 
retreating to the furthest end of the room. As it gi-ew 
intenser and more radiant, I observed a sickening and 
corpse-like odor diffuse itself through the chamber, and, 
despite my anxiety to witness this phenomenon undis- 
turbed, I could with difficulty conquer a feeling of faint- 
ness which oppressed me. 

The luminous cloud now began to grow brighter and 
brighter as I gazed. The horrible odor of which I have 
spoken did not cease to oppress me, and gradually I could 
discover certain lines making themselves visible in the 
midst of this lambent radiance. These lines took the 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 345 

form of a human figure, — a tall man, clothed in a long 
dressing-robe, with a pale countenance, burning eyes, and 
a very bold and prominent chin. At a glance I recog- 
nized the original of the picture of old Van Koeren that I 
had seen with Alice. My interest was now aroused to the 
highest point ; I felt that I stood face to face with a spirit, 
and doubted not that I should learn the fate of the old 
man's mysteriously concealed wealth. 

The spirit presented a very strange appearance. He 
himself was not luminous, except some tongues of fire 
that seemed to proceed from the tips of his fingers, but 
was completely surrounded by a thin gauze of light, so to 
speak, through which his outlines were visible. His head 
was bare, and his white hair fell in huge masses around 
his stern, saturnine face. As he moved on the floor, I 
distinctly heard a strange crackling sound, such as one 
hears when a substance has been overcharged with elec- 
tricity. But the circumstance that seemed to me most 
incomprehensible connected with the apparition was that 
Van Koeren held in both hands a curiously painted 
flower-pot, out of which sprang a number of the most 
beautiful tulips in full blossom. He seemed very uneasy 
and agitated, and moved about the room as if in pain, 
frequently bending over the pot of tulips as if to inhale 
their odor, then holding it out to me, seemingly in the 
hope of attracting my attention to it. I was, I confess, 
very much puzzled. I knew that Mr. Van Koeren had 
in his lifetime devoted much of his leisure to the cul- 
tivation of flowers, importing from Holland the most 
expensive and rarest bulbs ; but how this innocent fancy 
could trouble him after death I could not imagine. I 
felt assured, however, that some important reason lay at 
the bottom of this spectral eccentricity, and determined 
to fathom it if I could. 



346 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

'' What brings you here 1 " I asked audibly ; directing 
mentally, however, at the same time, the question to the 
spirit with all the power of my will. He did not seem 
to hear me, but still kept moving uneasily about, with 
the crackling noise I have mentioned, and holding the 
pot of tulips toward me. 

" It is evident," I said to myself, " that I am not suffi- 
ciently in accord with this spirit for him to make himself 
understood by speech. He has, therefore, recourse to 
symbols. The pot of tulips is a symbol. But of what "i " 

Thus reflecting on these things I continued to gaze 
upon the spirit. While observing him attentively, he 
approached my bedside by a rapid movement, and laid 
one hand on my arm. The touch was icy cold, and 
pained me at the moment. Next morning my arm was 
swollen, and marked with a round blue spot. Then, pass- 
ing to my bedroom-door, the spirit opened it and went 
out, shutting it behind him. Catching for a moment 
at the idea that I was the dupe of a trick, I jumped 
out of bed and ran to the door. It was locked with the 
key on the inside, and a brass safety-bolt, which lay above 
the lock, shot safely home. All was as I had left it on 
going to bed. Yet I declare most solemnly, that, as the 
ghost made his exit, I not only saw the door open, but / 
saw the corridor outside, and distinctly observed a large pic- 
ture of William of Orange that hung just opposite to my room. 
This to me was the most curious portion of the phenom- 
ena I had witnessed. Either the door had been opened by 
the ghost, and the resistance of physical obstacles over- 
come in some amazing manner, — because in this case the 
bolts must have been replaced when the ghost was out- 
side the door, — or he must have had a sufficient mag- 
netic accord with my mind to impress upon it the belief 






THE POT OF TULIPS. 347 

that the door was opened, and also to conjure up in my 
brain the vision of the corridor and the picture, features 
that I should have seen if the door had been opened by 
any ordinary physical agency. 

The next morning at breakfast I suppose my manner 
must have betrayed me, for Jasper said to me, after star- 
ing at me for some time, " Why, Harry Escott, what 's the 
matter with you 1 You look as if you had seen a ghost ! " 

" So I have, Jasper." 

Jasper, of course, burst into laughter, and said he 'd 
shave my head and give me a shower-bath. 

" Well, you may laugh," 1 answered ; " but you shall 
see it to-night, Jasper." 

He became serious in a moment, — I suppose there 
was something earnest in my manner that convinced him 
that my words were not idle, — and asked me to explain. 
I described ray interview as accurately as I could. 

" How did you know that it was old Van Koeren 1 " he 
asked. 

" Because I have seen his picture a hundred times with 
Alice," I answered, " and this apparition was as like it as 
it was possible for a ghost to be like a miniature." 

" You must not think I 'm laughing at you, Harry, he 
continued, " but I wish you would answer this. We have 
all heard of ghosts, — ghosts of men, women, children, 
dogs, horses, in fact every living animal ; but hang me 
if ever I heard of the ghost of a flower-pot before." 

" My dear Jasper, you would have heard of such things 
if you had studied such branches of learning. All the 
phenomena I witnessed last night are supportable by 
well-authenticated facts. The cool wind has attended the 
appearance of more than one ghost, and Baron Reichen- 
bach asserts that his patients, who you know are for the 



348 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

most part sensitive to apparitions, invariably feel this 
wind when a magnet is brought close to their bodies. 
With regard to the flower-pot about which you make so 
merry, it is to me the least wonderful portion of the appa- 
rition. When a ghost is unable to find a person of suffi- 
cient receptivity, in order to communicate with him by 
speech it is obliged to have recourse to symbols to ex- 
press its wishes. These it either creates by some mys- 
terious power out of the surrounding atmosphere, or it 
impresses, by magnetic force on the mind of the person 
it visits, the form of the symbol it is anxious to have 
represented. There is an instance mentioned by Jung 
Stilling of a student at Brunswick, who appeared to a 
professor of his college, with a picture in his hands, which 
picture had a hole in it that the ghost thrust his head 
through. For a long time this symbol was a mystery ; 
but the student was persevering, and appeared every 
night with his head through the picture, until at last 
it was discovered that, before he died, he had got some 
painted slides for a magic lantern from a shopkeeper in 
the town, which had not been paid for at his death ; and 
when the debt had been discharged, he and his picture 
vanished forevermore. Now here was a symbol distinctly 
bearing on the question at issue. This poor student could 
find no better way of expressing his uneasiness at the 
debt for the painted slides than by thrusting his head 
through a picture. How he conjured up the picture I 
cannot pretend to explain, but that it w^as used as a sym- 
bol is evident." 

" Then you think the flower-pot of old Van Koeren is 
a symbol 1 " 

" Most assuredly, the pot of tulips he held was intended 
to express that which he could not speak. I think it 



i 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 349 

must have had some reference to his missing property, 
and it is our business to discover in what manner." 

" Let us go and dig up all the tulip beds," said Jasper, 
" who knows but he may have buried his money in one 
of them 1 " 

I grieve to say that I assented to Jasper's proposition, 
and on that eventful day every tulip in that quaint old 
garden was ruthlessly uprooted. The gorgeous macaws, 
and ragged parrots, and long-legged pheasants, so cun- 
ningly formed by those brilliant flowers, were that day 
exterminated. Jasper and I had a regular battue amidst 
this floral preserve, and many a splendid bird fell before 
our unerring spades. We, however, dug in vain. No 
secret coffer turned up out of the deep mould of the 
flower-beds. We evidently were not on the right scent. 
Our researches for that day terminated, and Jasper and 
myself waited impatiently for the night. 

It was arranged that Jasper should sleep in my room. 
I had a bed rigged up for him near my own, and I was to 
have the additional assistance of his senses in the inves- 
tigation of the phenomena that we so confidently expected 
to appear. 

The night came. We retired to our respective couches, 
after carefully bolting the doors, and subjecting the entire 
apartment to the strictest scrutiny, rendering it totally 
unpossible that a secret entrance should exist unknown 
to us. We then put out the lights, and awaited the 
apparition. 

We did not remain in suspense long. About twenty 
minutes after we retired to bed, Jasper called out, " Har- 
ry, I feel the cool wind ! " 

" So do I," I answered, for at that moment a light 
breeze seemed to play across my temples. 



350 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

" Look, look, Harry ! " continued Jasper in a tone of 
painful eagerness, " I see a light — there in the comer ! " 

It was the phantom. As before, the luminous cloud 
appeared to gather in the room, growing more and more 
intense each minute. Presently the dark lines mapped 
themselves out, as it were, in the midst of this pale, radi- 
ant vapor, and there stood Mr. Van Koeren, ghastly and 
mournful as ever, with the pot of tulips in his hands. 

" Do you see it ? " I asked Jasper. 

" My God ! yes," said Jasper, in a low voice. " How 
terrible he looks ! " 

" Can you speak to me, to-night ? " I said, addressing 
the apparition, and again concentrating my will upon my 
question. " If so, unburden yourself. We will assist 
you, if we can." 

There was no reply. The ghost preserved the same 
sad, impassive countenance ; he had heard me not. He 
seemed in great distress on this occasion, moving up and 
down, and holding out the pot of tulips imploringly toward 
me, each motion of his being accompanied by the crack- 
ling noise and the corpse-like odor. I felt sorely troubled 
myself to see this poor spirit torn by an endless grief, — so 
anxious to communicate to me what lay on his soul, and 
yet debarred by some occult power from the privilege. 

"Why, Harry," cried Jasper after a silence, during 
which we both watched the motions of the ghost intently, 
" why, Harry, my boy, there are two of them ! " 

Astonished by his words, I looked around, and became 
immediately aware of the presence of a second luminous 
cloud, in the midst of which I could distinctly trace the 
figure of a pale but lovely woman. I needed no second 
glance to assure me that it was the unfortunate wife of 
Van Koeren. 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 351 

" It is his wife, Jasper," I replied ; " I recognize her, 
as I have recognized her husband, by the portrait." 

" How sad she looks ! " exclaimed Jasper in a low voice. 

She did indeed look sad. Her face, pale and mournful, 
did not, however, seem convulsed with sorrow, as was 
her husband's. She seemed to be oppressed with a calm 
grief, and gazed with a look of interest that was pain- 
ful in its intensity, on Van Koeren. It struck me, from 
his air, that, though she saw him, he did not see her. 
His whole attention was concentrated on the pot of tu- 
lips, while Mrs. Van Koeren, who floated at an elevation 
of about three feet from the floor, and thus overtopped 
her husband, seemed equally absorbed in the contempla- 
tion of his slightest movement. Occasionally she would 
turn her eyes on me, as if to call my attention to her 
companion, and then, returning, gaze on him with a sad, 
womanly, half-eager smile, that to me was inexpressibly 
mournful. 

There was something exceedingly touching in this 
strange sight ; — these two spirits so near, yet so distant. 
The sinful husband torn with grief and weighed down 
with some terrible secret, and so blinded by the grossness 
of his being as to be unable to see the wife-angel who was 
watching over him ; while she, forgetting all her wrongs, 
and attracted to earth by perhaps the same human sym- 
pathies, watched from a greater spiritual height, and with 
a tender interest, the struggles of her suffering spouse. 

" By Jove ! " exclaimed Jasper, jumping from his bed, 
*'I know what it means now." 

" What does it mean *? " I asked, as eager to know as 
he was to communicate. 

" Well, that flower-pot that the old chap is holding — " 
Jasper, I grieve to say, was rather profane. 



352 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

"Well, what of that flower-pot?" 

" Observe the pattern. It has two handles made of red 
snakes, whose tails twist round the top and form a rim. 
It contains tulips of three colors, yellow, red, and purple." 

*'I see all that as well as you do. Let us have the 
solution." 

" Well, Harry, my boy ! don't you remember that there 
is just such a flower-pot, tulips, snakes and all, carved on 
the queer old painted mantel-piece in the dining-room " 

*' So there is ! " and a gleam of hope shot across my 
brain, and my heart beat quicker. 

** Now as sure as you are alive, Harry, the old fellow has 
concealed something important behind that mantel-piece." 

"Jasper, if ever I am Emperor of France, I will make 
you chief of police; your inductive reasoning is mag- 
nificent." 

Actuated by the same impulse, and without another 
word, we both sprang out of bed and lit a candle. The 
apparitions, if they remained, were no longer visible in 
the light. Hastily throwing on some clothes, we rushed 
down stairs to the dining-room, determined to have the 
old mantel-piece down without loss of time. We had 
scarce entered the room when we felt the cool wind 
blowing on our faces. 

" Jasper," said I, " they are here ! " 

" Well," answered Jasper, " that only confirms my sus- 
picions that we are on the right track this time. Let us 
go to work. See ! here 's the pot of tulips." 

This pot of tulips occupied the centre of the mantel- 
piece, and served as a nucleus round which all the fantas- 
tic animals sculptured elsewhere might be said to gather. 
It was carved on a species of raised shield, or boss, of 
wood, that projected some inches beyond the plane of the 



I 



THE POT OF TULIPS. 353 

remainder of the mantel-piece. The pot itself was painted 
a brick color. The snakes were of bronze color, gilt, and 
the tulips — yellow, red, and purple — were painted after 
nature with the most exquisite accuracy. 

For some time Jasper and myself tugged away at this 
projection without any avail. We were convinced that it 
was a movable panel of some kind, but yet were totally 
unable to move it. Suddenly it struck me that we had 
not yet twisted it. I immediately proceeded to apply all 
my strength, and after a few seconds of vigorous exertion 
I had the satisfaction of finding it move slowly round. 
After giving it half a dozen turns, to my astonishment the 
long upper panel of the mantel-piece fell out toward us, 
apparently on concealed hinges, after the manner of 
the portion of escritoires that is used as a writing-table. 
Within were several square cavities sunk in the wall, 
and lined with wood. In one of these was a bundle 
of papers. 

We seized these papers with avidity, and hastily glanced 
over them. They proved to be documents vouching for 
property to the amount of several hundred thousand dol- 
lars, invested in the name of Mr. Van Koeren in a certain 
firm at Bremen, who, no doubt, thought by this time 
that the money would remain unclaimed forever. The 
desires of these poor troubled spirits were accomplished. 
Justice to the child had been given through the instru- 
mentality of the erring father. 

The formulas necessary to prove Alice and her mother 
sole heirs to Mr. Van Koeren's estate were briefly gone 
through, and the poor governess passed suddenly from the 
task of teaching stupid children to the envied position of 
a great heiress. I had ample reason afterward for think- 
ing that her heart did not change with her fortunes. 

23 



354 THE POT OF TULIPS. 

That Mr. Van Koeren became aware of his wife's inno- 
cence, just before he died, I have no doubt. How this 
was manifested I cannot of course say, but I think it 
highly probably that his poor wife herself was enabled at 
the critical moment of dissolution, when the link that 
binds body and soul together is attenuated to the last 
thread, to put herself in accord with her unhappy hus- 
band. Hence his sudden starting up in his bed, his ap- 
parent conversation with some invisible being, and his 
fragmentary disclosures, too broken, however, to be com- 
prehended. 

The question of apparitions has been so often discussed 
that I feel no inclination to enter here upon the truth or 
fallacy of the ghostly theory. I myself believe in ghosts. 
Alice — my wife — believes in them firmly ; and if it 
suited me to do so I- could overwhelm you with a scien- 
tific theory of my own on the subject, reconciling ghosts 
and natural phenomena. 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 355 



THE GOLDEJSr INGOT. 



I HAD just retired to rest, with my eyes almost blind 
with the study of a new work on physiology by M. Brown- 
Sequard, when the night-bell was palled violently. 

It was winter, and I confess I grumbled as I rose and 
went down stairs to open the door. Twice that week I 
had been aroused long after midnight for the most trivial 
causes. Once, to attend upon the son and heir of a 
wealthy family, who had cut his thumb with a penknife, 
which, it seems, he insisted on taking to bed with him ; 
and once, to restore a young gentleman to consciousness, 
who had been found by his horrified parent stretched 
insensible on the staircase. Diachylon in the one case 
and ammonia in the other, were all that my patients re- 
quired ; and I had a faint suspicion that the present 
summons was perhaps occasioned by no case more neces- 
sitous than those I have quoted. I was too young in my 
profession, however, to neglect opportunities. It is only 
when a physician rises to a very large practice that he 
can afford to be inconsiderate. I was on the first step of 
the ladder, so I humbly opened my door. 

A woman was standing ankle-deep in the snow that lay 
upon the stoop. I caught but a dim glimpse of her form, 
for the night was cloudy ; but I could hear her teeth rat- 
tling like castanets, and, as the sharp wind blew her 



356 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

clothes close to her form, I could discern from the sharp- 
ness of the outlines that she was very scantily supplied 
with raiment. 

"Come in, come in, my good woman," I said hastily, 
for the wind seemed to catch eagerly at the opportunity 
of making itself at home in my hall, and was rapidly 
forcing an entrance through the half-open door. " Come 
in, you can tell me all you have to communicate inside." 

She slipped in like a ghost, and I closed the door. 
While I was striking a light in my ofi&ce, I could hear 
her teeth still clicking, out in the dark hall, till it seemed 
as if some skeleton was chattering. As soon as I obtained 
a light I begged her to enter the room, and, without occu- 
pying myself particularly about her appearance, asked 
her abruptly what her business was. 

" My father has met with a severe accident," she said, 
" and requires instant surgical aid. I entreat you to 
come to him immediately." 

The freshness and the melody of her voice startled me. 
Such voices rarely if ever issue from any but beautiful 
forms. I looked at her attentively, but, owing to a non- 
descript species of shawl in which her head was wrapped, 
I could discern nothing beyond what seemed to be a pale, 
thin face, and large eyes. Her dress was lamentable. 
An old silk, of a color now mirecognizable, clung to her 
figure in those limp folds which are so eloquent of misery. 
The creases where it had been folded were worn nearly 
through, and the edges of the skirt had decayed into 
a species of irregular fringe, which was clotted and dis- 
colored with mud. Her shoes — which were but half con- 
cealed by this scanty garment — were shapeless and soft 
with moisture. Her hands were hidden under the ends 
of the shawl which covered her head and hung down 



I 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 357 

over a bust, the outlines of which, although angular, seemed 
to possess grace. Poverty, when partially shrouded, sel- 
dom fails to interest : witness the statue of the Veiled 
Beggar, by Monti. 

" In what manner was your father hurt ? " I asked, in a 
tone considerably softened from the one in which I put 
my first question. 

" He blew himself up, sir, and is terribly wounded." 

" Ah ! He is in some factory then "i " 

*' No, sir, he is a chemist." 

" A chemist 1 Why, he is a brother professional. Wait 
an instant and I will slip on my coat and go with you. 
Do you live far from here 1 " 

" In the Seventh Avenue, not more than two blocks 
from the end of this street." 

" So much the better. We will be with him in a few 
minutes. Did you leave any one in attendance on him 1 " 

" No, sir. He will allow no one but myself to enter 
his laboratory. And, injured as he is, I could not induce 
him to quit it." 

" Indeed ! He is engaged in some great research, per- 
haps ? I have known such cases." 

We were passing under a lamp-post, and the woman 
suddenly turned and glared at me with a look of such 
wild terror that for an instant I involuntarily glanced 
round me under the impression that some terrible peril, 
unseen by me, was menacing us both. 

" Don't — don't ask me any questions," she said breath- 
lessly. " He will tell you all. But do, 0, do hasten ! 
Good God ! he may be dead by this time ! " 

I made no reply, but allowed her to grasp my hand, 
which she did with a bony, nervous clutch, and endeav- 
ored with some difficulty to keep pace with the long strides 



358 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

— I might well call them bounds, for they seemed the 
springs of a wild animal rather than the paces of a young 
girl — with w^iich she covered the ground. Not a word 
more was uttered until we stopped before a shabby, old- 
fashioned tenement-house in the Seventh Avenue, not far 
above Twenty-Third Street. She pushed the door open 
with a convulsive pressure, and, still retaining hold of my 
hand, literally dragged me up-stairs to what seemed to be 
a back off-shoot from the main building, as high, perhaps, 
as the fourth story. In a moment more I found myself 
in a moderate-sized chamber, lit by a single lamp. In 
one corner, stretched motionless on a wretched pallet-bed, 
I beheld what I supposed to be the figure of my patient. 

" He is there," said the girl ; " go to him. See if he 
is dead, — I dare not look." 

I made my way as well as I could through the num- 
berless dilapidated chemical instruments with which the 
room was littered. A French chafing-dish supported on 
an iron tripod had been overturned, and was lying across 
the floor, while the charcoal, still warm, was scattered 
around in various directions. Crucibles, alembics, and 
retorts were confusedly piled in various corners, and on 
a small table I saw distributed in separate bottles a num- 
ber of mineral and metallic substances, which I recognized 
as antimony, mercury, plumbago, arsenic, borax, etc. It 
was veritably the apartment of a poor chemist. All the 
apparatus had the air of being second-hand. There was 
no lustre of exquisitely annealed glass and highly polished 
metals, such as dazzles one in the laboratory of the pros- 
perous analyst. The make-shifts of poverty were every- 
where visible. The crucibles were broken, or gallipots 
were used instead of crucibles. The colored tests were 
not in the usual transparent vials, but were placed in 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 359 

ordinary black bottles. There is nothing more melan- 
choly than to behold science or art in distress. A thread- 
bare scholar, a tattered book, or a battered violin is a 
mute appeal to our sympathy. 

I approached the wretched pallet-bed on which the vic- 
tim of chemistry was lying. He breathed heavily, and 
had his head turned toward the wall. I lifted his arm 
gently to arouse his attention. " How goes it, my poor 
friend 1 " I asked him. " Where are you hurt 1 " 

In a moment, as if startled by the sound of my voice, 
he sprang up in his bed, and cowered against the wall 
like a wild animal driven to bay. *' Who are you 1 I 
don't know you. Who brought you here ? You are a 
stranger. How dare you come into my private rooms 
to spy upon me 1 " 

And as he uttered this rapidly, with a frightful nervous 
energy, I beheld a pale distorted face, d*aped with long 
gray hair, glaring at me with a mingled expression of fury 
and terror. 

" I am no spy," I answered mildly. " I heard that 
you had met with an accident, and have come to cure 
you. I am Doctor Luxor, and here is my card." 

The old man took the card, and scanned it eagerly. 
" You are a physician 1 " he inquired distrustfully. 

" And surgeon also." 

" You are bound by oath not to reveal the secrets of 
your patients." 

" Undoubtedly." 

"I am afraid that I am hurt," he continued faintly, 
half sinking back in the bed. 

I seized the opportunity to make a brief examination 
of his body. I found that the arms, a part of the chest, 
and a part of the face were terribly scorched ; but it 



360 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

seemed to me that there was nothing to be apprehended 
but pain. 

"You will not reveal anything that you may learn 
here ] " said the old man, feebly fixing his eyes on my 
face while I was applying a soothing ointment to the 
burns. " You will promise me 1 " 

I nodded assent. 

" Then I will trust you. Cure me, — I will pay you 
well." 

I could scarce help smiling. If Lorenzo de' Medici, 
conscious of millions of ducats in his coffers, had been 
addressing some leech of the period, he could not have 
spoken with a loftier air than this inhabitant of the fourth 
story of a tenement-house in the Seventh Avenue. 

" You must keep quiet," I answered. " Let nothing 
irritate you. I will leave a composing draught with your 
daughter, which she will give you immediately. I will 
see you in the morning. You will be well in a week." 

" Thank God ! " came in a murmur from a dusk comer 
near the door. I turned, and beheld the dim outline of 
the girl, standing with clasped hands in the gloom of the 
dim chamber. 

" My daughter ! " screamed the old man, once more 
leaping up in the bed with renewed vitality. " You have 
seen her, then? When? where? 0, may a thousand 
cur—" 

" Father ! father ! Anything, — anything but that. 
Don't, don't curse me ! " And the poor girl, rushing in, 
flung herself sobbing on her knees beside his pallet. 

" Ah, brigand ! you are there, are you 1 Sir," said he, 
turning to me, "I am the most unhappy man in the 
world. Talk of Sisyphus rolling the ever-recoiling stone, 
— of Prometheus gnawed by the vulture since the birth 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 361 

of time. The fables yet live. There is my rock, forever 
crushing me back ! there is my eternal vulture, feeding 
upon my heart ! There ! there ! there ! " And, with an 
awful gesture of malediction and hatred, he pointed with 
his wounded hand, swathed and shapeless with bandages, 
at the cowering, sobbing, wordless woman by his side. 

I was too much horror-stricken to attempt even to 
soothe him. The anger of blood against blood has an 
electric power which paralyzes bystanders. 

" Listen to me, sir," he continued, " while I skin this 
painted viper. I have your oath ; you will not reveal. I 
am an alchemist, sir. Since I was tw^enty-two years old, 
I have pursued the wonderful and subtle secret. Yes, 
to unfold the mysterious Rose guarded with such terrible 
thorns ; to decipher the wondrous Table of Emerald ; to 
accomplish the mystic nuptials of the Red King and the 
White Queen ; to marry them soul to soul and body to 
body for ever and ever, in the exact proportions of land 
and water, — such has been my sublime aim, such has 
been the splendid feat that I have accomplished." 

I recognized at a glance, in this incomprehensible far- 
rago, the argot of the true alchemist. Ripley, Flamel, 
and others have supplied the world, in their works, with 
the melancholy spectacle of a scientific Bedlam. 

"Two years since," continued the poor man, growing 
more and more excited with every word that he uttered, 
— " two years since, I succeeded in solving the great 
problem, — in transmuting the baser metals into gold. 
Xone but myself, that girl, and God knows the privations 
I had suffered up to that time. Food, clothing, air, ex- 
ercise, everything but shelter, was sacrificed toward the 
one great end. Success at last crowned my labors. That 
which Nicholas Flamel did in 1382, that which George 



362 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

Ripley did at Rhodes in 1460, that which Alexander Sethon 
and Michael Sciidivogius did in the seventeenth century, 
I did in 1856. I made gold ! I said to myself, ' I will 
astonish New York more than Flamel did Paris.' He 
was a poor copyist, and suddenly launched into magnifi- 
cence. I had scarce a rag to my back : I would rival the 
Medicis. I made gold every day. I toiled night and 
morning ; for I must tell you that I never was able to 
make more than a certain quantity at a time, and that by 
a process almost entirely dissimilar to those hinted at in 
those books of alchemy I had hitherto consulted. But I 
had no doubt that facility would come with experience, 
and that erelong I should be able to eclipse in wealth the 
richest sovereigns of the earth. 

" So I toiled on. Day after day I gave to this girl here 
what gold I succeeded in fabricating, telling her to store 
it away after supplying our necessities. I was astonished 
to perceive that we lived as poorly as ever. I reflected, 
however, that it was perhaps a commendable piece of 
prudence on the part of my daughter. Doubtless, I said, 
she argues that the less we spend the sooner we shall ac- 
cumulate a capital wherewith to live at ease ; so, thinking 
her course a wise one, I did not reproach her with her nig- 
gardliness, but toiled on amid want, with closed lips. 

"The gold which I fabricated was, as I said before, of 
an invariable size, namely, a little ingot worth perhaps 
thirty or forty-five dollars. In two years I calculated 
that I had made five hundred of these ingots, which, 
rated at an average of thirty dollars apiece, w^ould amount 
to the gross sum of fifteen thousand dollars. After de- 
ducting our slight expenses for two years, we ought to 
have nearly fourteen thousand dollars left. It was time, 
I thought, to indemnify myself for my years of suffering, 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 363 

and surround my child and myself with such' moderate 
comforts as our means allowed. I went to my daughter 
and explained to her that I desired to make an encroach- 
ment upon our little hoard. To my utter amazement, 
she burst into tears, and told me that she had not got a 
dollar, — that all of our wealth had been stolen from her. 
Almost overwhelmed by this new misfortune, I in vain 
endeavored to discover from her in what manner our sav- 
ings had been plundered. She could afford me no ex- 
planation beyond what I might gather from an abundance 
of sobs and a copious flow of tears. 

" It was a bitter blow. Doctor, but nil desperandum was 
my motto, so I went to work at my crucible again, with 
redoubled energy, and made an ingot nearly every second 
day. I determined this time to put them in some secure 
place myself ; but the very first day I set my apparatus 
in order for the projection, the girl Marian — that is my 
daughter's name — came weeping to me and implored me 
to allow her to take care of our treasure. I refused, de- 
cisively, saying that, having found her already incapable 
of filling the trust, I could place no faith in her again. 
But she persisted, clung to my neck, threatened to aban- 
don me, in short used so many of the bad but irresistible 
arguments known to women, that I had not the heart to 
refuse her. She has since that time continued to take 
the ingots. 

" Yet you behold," continued the old alchemist, casting 
an inexpressibly mournful glance around the wretched 
apartment, " the way we live. Our food is insufficient 
and of bad quality ; we never buy clothes ; the rent of 
this hole is a mere nothing. What am I to think of the 
wretched girl who plunges me into this misery % Is she 
a miser, think you 1 or a female gamester 1 or — or — 



364 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

does she squander it riotously in places I know not of 1 
Doctor, Doctor! do not blame me if I heap impreca- 
tions on her head, for I have suffered bitterly ! " The 
poor man here closed his eyes and sank back groaning 
on his bed. 

This singular narrative excited in me the strangest 
emotions. I glanced at the girl Marian, who had been a 
patient listener to these horrible accusations of cupidity, 
and never did I behold a more angelic air of resignation 
than beamed over her countenance. It was impossible 
that any one \vith those pure, limpid eyes, that calm, 
broad forehead, that childlike mouth, could be such a 
monster of avarice or deceit as the old man represented. 
The truth was plain enough : the alchemist was mad, — 
what alchemist was there ever who was not 1 — and his 
insanity had taken this terrible shape. I felt an inex- 
pressible pity move my heart for this poor girl, whose 
youth was burdened with such an awful sorrow. 

" What is your name '? " I asked the old man, taking 
his tremulous, fevered hand in mine. 

" William Blakelock," he answered. " I come of an 
old Saxon stock, sir, that bred true men and women in 
former days. God ! how did it ever come to pass that 
such a one as that girl ever sprung from our line 1 " The 
glance of loathing and contempt that he cast at her made 
me shudder. 

'* May you not be mistaken in your daughter 1 " I said, 
very mildly. " Delusions with regard to alchemy are, or 
have been, very common — " 

" What, sir 1 " cried the old man, bounding in his bed. 
" What 1 Do you doubt that gold can be made "i Do 
you know, sir, that M. C. Theodore TifFereau made gold 
at Paris, in the year 1854, in the presence of M. Level, 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 365 

the assayer of the Imperial Mint, and the result of the 
experiments was read before the Academy of Sciences on 
the sixteenth of October of the same year 1 But stay ; 
you shall have better proof yet. I will pay you with one 
of my ingots, and you shall attend me until I am well. 
Get me an ingot ! " 

This last command was addressed to Marian, who was 
still kneeling close to her father's bedside. I observed 
her with some curiosity as this mandate was issued. She 
became very pale, clasped her hands convulsively, but 
neither moved nor made any reply. 

" Get me an ingot, I say ! " reiterated the alchemist, 
passionately. 

She fixed her large eyes imploringly upon him. Her 
lips quivered, and two huge tears rolled slowly down her 
white cheeks. 

"Obey me, wretched girl," cried the old man in an agi- 
tated voice, " or I swear, by all that I reverence in heaven 
and earth, that I will lay my curse upon you forever ! " 

I felt for an instant that I ought perhaps to interfere, 
and spare the girl the anguish that she was so evidently 
suffering ; but a powerful curiosity to see how this strange 
scene would terminate withheld me. 

The last threat of her father, uttered as it was with a 
terrible vehemence, seemed to appall Marian. She rose 
with a sudden leap, as if a serpent had stung her, and, 
rushing into an inner apartment, returned with a small 
object in her hand, which she placed in mine, and then 
flung herself in a chair in a distant corner of the room, 
weeping bitterly. 

" You see — you see," said the old man sarcastically, 
*' how reluctantly she parts with it. Take it, sir ; it is 
yours." 



366 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

It was a small bar of metal. I examined it carefully, 
poised it in my hand, — the color, weight, everything, 
announced that it really was gold. 

" You doubt its genuineness, perhaps," continued the 
alchemist. " There are acids on yonder table, — test it." 

1 confess that I did doubt its genuineness ; but after I 
had acted upon the old man's suggestion, all further sus- 
picion was rendered impossible. . It was gold of the high- 
est purity. I was astounded. "VYas then, after all, this 
man's tale a truth % Was his daughter, that fair, angelic- 
looking creature, a demon of avarice, or a slave to worse 
passions'? I felt bewildered. I had never met with 
anything so incomprehensible. I looked from father to 
daughter in the blankest amazement. I suppose that my 
countenance betrayed my astonishment, for the old man 
said, " I perceive that you are surprised. Well, that is 
natural. You had a right to think me mad until I proved 
myself sane." 

" But, Mr. Blakelock," I said, " I really cannot take 
this gold. I have no right to it. I cannot in justice 
charge so large a fee." 

"Take it, — take it," he answered impatiently ; "your 
fee will amount to that before I am well. Beside," he 
added mysteriously, " I wish to secure your friendship. 
I wish that you should protect me from her," — and he 
pointed his poor, bandaged, hand at Marian. 

My eye followed his gesture, and I caught the glance 
that replied, — a glance of horror, distrust, despair. The 
beautiful face was distorted into positive ugliness. 

" It 's all true," I thought ; " she is the demon that her 
father represents her." 

I now rose to go. This domestic tragedy sickened me. 
This treachery of blood against blood was too horrible to 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 367 

witness. I wrote a prescription for the old man, left 
directions as to the renewal of the dressings upon his 
burns, and, bidding him good night, hastened towards 
the door. 

While I was fumbling on the dark, crazy landing for 
the staircase, I felt a hand laid on my arm. 

" Doctor," whispered a voice that I recognized as Ma- 
rian Blakelock's, "Doctor, have you any compassion in 
your heart ? " * 

" I hope so," I answered, shortly, shaking off her hand, 
— her touch filled me with loathing. 

" Hush ! don't talk so loud. If you have any pity in 
your nature, give me back, I entreat of you, that gold 
ingot which my father gave you this evening." 

" Great heaven ! " said I, " can it be possible that so fair 
a woman can be such a mercenarj^, shameless wretch 1 " 

" Ah ! you know not, — I cannot tell you ! Do not 
judge me harshly. I call God to witness that I am not 
what you deem me. Some day or other you will know. 
But," she added, interrupting herself, "the ingot, — where 
is if? I must have it. My life depends on your giving 
it to me." 

" Take it, impostor ! " I cried, placing it in her hand, 
that closed on it with a horrible eagerness. " I never in- 
tended to keep it. Gold made under the same roof that 
covers such as you must be accursed." 

So saying, heedless of the nervous effort she made to 
detain me, I stumbled down the stairs and walked hastily 
home. 

The next morning, while I was in my office, smoking 
my matutinal cigar, and speculating over the singular 
character of my acquaintances of last night, the door 
opened, and Marian Blakelock entered. She had the 



368 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

same look of teiTor that I had observed the evening be- 
fore, and she panted as if she had been running fast. 

"Father has got out of bed," she gasped out, "and in- 
sists on going on with his alchem}^ Will it kill him 1 " 

"Not exactly," I answered, coldly. "It were better 
that he kept quiet, so as to avoid the chance of inflam- 
mation. However, you need not be alarmed ; his burns 
are not at all dangerous, although painful." 

*" Thank God ! thank God ! " she cried, in the most im- 
passioned accents ; and, before I was aware of what she 
was doing, she seized my hand and kissed it. 

" There, that will do," I said, withdrawing my hand ; 
" you are under no obligations to me. You had better 
go back to your father." 

" I can't go," she answered. " You despise me, — is it 
not so 1 " 

I made no reply. 

"You think me a monster, — a criminal. When j^ou 
went home last night, you were wonder-struck that so vile 
a creature as I should have so fair a face." 

"You embarrass me, madam," I said, in a most chilling 
tone. "Pray relieve me from this unpleasant position." 

" Wait ! I cannot bear that you should think ill of 
me. You are good and kind, and I desire to possess your 
esteem. You little know how I love my father." 

I could not restrain a bitter smile. 

" You do not believe that "i Well, I will convince you. 
I have had a hard struggle all last night w'ith myself, but 
am now resolved. This life of deceit must continue no 
longer. Will you hear my vindication 1 " 

I assented. The wonderful melody of her voice and 
the purity of her features were charming me once more. 
I half believed in her innocence already. 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 369 

" My father has told you a portion of his history. But 
he did not tell you that his continued failures in his 
search after the secret of metallic transmutation nearly 
killed him. Two years ago he was on the verge of the 
grave, working every day at his mad pursuit, and every 
day growing w^eaker and more emaciated. I saw that if 
his mind was not relieved in some way he would die. 
The thought was madness to me, for I loved him, — I 
love him still, as a daughter never loved a father before. 
During all these years of poverty I had supported the 
house with my needle ; it was hard work, but I did it, — 
I do it still ! " 

" What 1 " I cried, startled, " does not — " 

"Patience. Hear me out. My father was dying of 
disappointment. I must save him. By incredible exer- 
tions, working night and day, I saved about thirty-five 
dollars in notes. These I exchanged for gold, and one 
day, when my father was not looking, I cast them into 
the crucible in which he was making one of his vain at- 
tempts at transmutation. God, I am sure, will pardon 
the deception. I never anticipated the misery it w^ould 
lead to. 

" I never beheld anything like the joy of my poor 
father, when, after emptying his crucible, he found a de- 
posit of pure gold at the bottom. He wept, and danced, 
and sang, and built such castles in the air, that my brain 
was dizzy to hear him. He gave me the ingot to keep, 
and went to work at his alchemy with renewed vigor. 
The same thing occurred. He always found the same 
quantity of gold in his crucible. I alone knew the secret. 
He was happy, poor man, for nearly two years, in the be- 
lief that he was amassing a fortune. I all the while plied 
my needle for our daily bread. When he asked me for 

24 



370 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

his savings, the first stroke fell upon me. Then it was 
that I recognized the folly of my conduct. I could give 
him no money. I never had any, — while he believed 
that I had fourteen thousand dollars. My heart was 
nearly broken when I found that he had conceived the 
most injurious suspicions against me. Yet I could not 
blame him. I could give no account of the treasure 
I had permitted him to believe was in my possession. I 
must suffer the penalty of my fault, for to undeceive him 
would be, I felt, to kill him. I remained silent then, and 
suffered. 

" You know the rest. You now know why it was that 
I was reluctant to give you that ingot, — why it was that 
I degraded myself so far as to ask it back. It was the 
onl}^ means I had of continuing a deception on which I 
believed my father's life depended. But that delusion 
has been dispelled. I can live this life of hypocrisy no 
longer. I cannot exist, and hear my father, whom I love 
so, wither me daily with his curses. I will undeceive 
him this very day. Will you come with me, for I fear 
the effect on his enfeebled frame]" 

" Willingly," I answered, taking her by the hand ; " and 
I think that no absolute danger need be apprehended. 
Now, Marian," I added, " let me ask forgiveness for having 
even for a moment wounded so noble a heart. You are 
truly as great a martyr as any of those whose sufferings 
the Church perpetuates in altar-pieces," 

" I knew you would do me justice when you knew all," 
she sobbed, pressing my hand ; '* but come. I am on 
fire. Let us hasten to my father, and break this terror 
to him." 

When w'e reached the old alchemist's room, we found 
him busily engaged over a crucible which was placed on 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 371 

a small furnace, and in which some indescribable mixture 
was boiling. He looked up as we entered. 

"No fear of me, Doctor," he said, with a ghastly smile, 
" no fear. I must not allow a little physical pain to inter- 
rupt my great work, you know. By the way, you are just 
in time. In a few moments the marriage of the Red King 
and White Queen will be accomj)lished, as George Ripley 
calls the great act, in his book entitled The Twelve Gates. 
Yes, Doctor, in less than ten minutes you will see me 
make pare, red, shining gold ! " And the poor old man 
smiled triumphantly, and stirred his foolish mixture with 
a long rod, which he held with difficulty in his bandaged 
hands. It was a grievous sight for a man of any feeling 
to witness. 

"Father," said Marian, in a low, broken voice, advan- 
cing a little toward the poor old dupe, " I want your for- 
giveness." 

" Ah, hypocrite ! for what % Are you going to give me 
back my gold % " 

"No, father, but for the deception that I have been 
practising on you for two years — " 

" I knew it ! I knew it ! " shouted the old man, with a 
radiant countenance. " She has concealed my fourteen 
thousand dollars all this time, and now comes to restore 
them. I will forgive her. Where are they, Marian % " 

" Father, — it must come out. You never made any 
gold. It was I who saved up thirty-five dollars, and I 
used to slip them into your crucible when your back was 
turned, — and I did it only because I saw that you were 
dying of disappointment. It was wrong, I know, — but, 
father, I meant well. You '11 forgive me, won't you % " 
And the poor girl advanced a step towards the alche- 
mist. 



372 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 

He grew deathly pale, and staggered as if about to fall. 
The next instant, though, he recovered himself, and burst 
into a horrible sardonic laugh. Then he said, in tones 
full of the bitterest irony, "A conspiracy, is if? Well 
done. Doctor ! You think to reconcile me with this 
wretched girl by trumping up this story, that I have 
been for two years a dupe of her filial piety. It 's 
clumsy, Doctor, and is a total failure. Try again." 

" But I assure you, Mr. Blakelock," I said as earnestly 
as I could, " I believe your daughter's statements to be 
perfectly true. You will find it to be so, as she has got 
the ingot in her possession which so often deceived you 
into the belief that you made gold, and you will cer- 
tainly find that no transmutation has taken place in 
your crucible." 

" Doctor," said the old man, in tones of the most set- 
tled conviction, "you are a fool. That girl has wheedled 
you. In less than a minute I will turn you out a piece 
of gold, purer than any the earth produces. Will that 
convince you 1 " 

"That will convince me," I answered. By a gesture I 
imposed silence on Marian, who was about to speak. I 
thought it better to allow the old man to be his own 
undeceiver, — and we awaited the coming crisis. 

The old man, still smiling with anticipated triumph, 
kept bending eagerly over his crucible, stirring the mix- 
ture with his rod, and muttering to himself all the time. 
" Now," I heard him say, " it changes. There, — there 's 
the scum. And now the green and bronze shades flit 
across it. 0, the beautiful green ! the precursor of the 
golden-red hue, that tells of the end attained ! Ah ! now 
the golden-red is coming — slowly — slowly ! It deepens, 
it shines, it is dazzling ! Ah, I have it ! " So saying, he 



THE GOLDEN INGOT. 373 

caught up his crucible in a chemist's tongs, and bore it 
slowly toward the table on which stood a brass vessel. 

" Now, incredulous Doctor ! " he cried, " come and be 
convinced "; and immediately began carefully pouring the 
contents of the crucible into the brass vessel. When 
the crucible was quite empty, he turned it up, and called 
me again. " Come, Doctor, come and be convinced. See 
for yourself." 

" See first if there is any gold in your crucible," I an- 
swered, without moving. 

He laughed, shook his head derisively, and looked into 
the crucible. In a moment he grew pale as death. 

"Nothing!" he cried. "0, a jest! a jest! There 
must be gold somewhere. Marian ! " 

*' The gold is here, father," said Marian, drawing the 
ingot from her pocket ; " it is all we ever had." 

" Ah ! " shrieked the poor old man, as he let the empty 
crucible fall, and staggered toward the ingot which Marian 
held out to him. He made three steps, and then fell on 
his face. Marian rushed toward him, and tried to lift 
him, but could not. I put her aside gently, and placed 
my hand on his heart. 

"Marian," said I, "it is perhaps better as it is. He 
is dead ! " 



374 MY WIFE'S TEMPTEE. 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 



A PREDESTINED MARRIAGE. 

Elsie and I were to be married in less than a week. 
It was rather a strange match, and I knew that some of 
our neighbors shook their heads over it and said that no 
good would come. The way it came to pass was thus. 

I loved Elsie Burns for two years, during which time 
she refused me three times, I could no more help asking 
her to have me, when the chance offered, than I could 
help breathing or living. To love her seemed natural to 
me as existence. I felt no shame, only sorrow, when she 
rejected me ; I felt no shame either when I renewed my 
suit. The neighbors called me mean-spirited to take up 
with any girl that had refused me as often as Elsie Burns 
had done ; but what cared I about the neighbors 1 If it 
is black weather, and the sun is under a cloud every day 
for a month, is that any reason why the poor farmer 
should not hope for the blue sky and the plentiful burst 
of warm light when the dark month is over? I never 
entirely lost heart. Do not, however, mistake me. I did 
not mope, and moan, and grow pale, after the manner of 
poetical lovers. No such thing. I went bravely about 
my business, ate and drank as usual, laughed when the 
laugh went round, and slept soundly, and woke refreshed. 
Yet all this time I loved — desperately loved — Elsie 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 375 

Burns. I went wherever I hoped to meet her, but did 
not haunt her with my attentions. I behaved to her as 
any friendly young man would have behaved : I met her 
and parted from her cheerfully. She was a good girl, 
too, and behaved well. She had me in her power, — how 
a woman in Elsie's situation could have mortified a man 
in mine ! — but she never took the slightest advantage of 
it. She danced with me when I asked her, and had no 
foolish fears of allowing me to see her home of nights, 
after a ball was over, or of wandering with me through 
the pleasant New England fields when the wild-flowers 
made the patlis like roads in fairy-land. 

On the several disastrous occasions when I presented 
my suit I did it simply and manfully, telling her that I 
loved her very much, and would do everything to make 
her happy, if she would be my wife. I made no fulsome 
protestations, and did not once allude to suicide. She, 
on the other hand, calmly and gravely thanked me for 
my good opinion, but with the same calm gravity rejected 
me. I used to tell her that I was grieved ; that I would 
not press her; that I would wait and hope for some 
change in her feelings. She had an esteem for me, she 
would say, but could not marry me. I never asked her 
for any reasons. I hold it to be an insult to a woman of 
sense to demand her reasons on such an occasion. Enough 
for me that she did not then wish to be my wife ; so the 
old intercourse went on, — she cordial and polite as ever, 
I never for one moment doubting that the day would 
come when my roof-tree would shelter her, and we should 
smile together over our fireside at my long and indefati- 
gable wooing. 

I will confess that at times I felt a little jealous, — jeal- 
ous of a man named Hammond Brake, who lived in our 



376 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

village. He was a weird, saturnine fellow, who made no 
friends among the young men of the neighborhood, but 
who loved to go alone, with his books and his own 
thoughts for company. He was a studious, and, I be- 
lieve, a learned young man, and there w^as no avoiding 
the fact that he possessed considerable influence over El- 
sie. She liked to talk with him in corners, or in secluded 
nooks of the forest, when we all went out blackberry- 
gathering or picnicking. She read books that he gave 
her, and whenever a discussion arose relative to any topic 
higher than those ordinary ones we usually canvassed, 
Elsie appealed to Brake for his opinion, as a disciple con- 
sulting a beloved master. I confess that for a time I 
feared this man as a rival. A little closer observation, 
however, convinced me that my suspicions were un- 
founded. The relation between Elsie and Hammond 
Brake was purely intellectual. She reverenced his talents 
and acquirements, but she did not love him. His influ- 
ence over her, nevertheless, was none the less decided. 

In time — as I thought all along — Elsie yielded. I 
was what was considered a most eligible match, being 
tolerably rich, and Elsie's parents were most anxious to 
have me for a son-in-law. I was good-looking and well- 
educated enough, and the old people, I believe, pertina- 
ciously dinned all my advantages into my little girl's ears. 
She battled against the marriage for a long time with a 
strange persistence, — all the more strange because she 
never alleged the slightest personal dislike to me ; but 
after a vigorous cannonading from her own garrison, (in 
which, I am proud to say, I did not in any way join,) she 
hoisted the white flag and surrendered. 

I was very happy. I had no fear about being able to 
gain Elsie's heart. I think — indeed I know — that she 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 377 

had liked me all along, and that her refusals were dic- 
tated by other feelings than those of a personal nature. 
I only guessed as much then. It was some time before I 
knew all. 

As the day approached for our wedding Elsie did not 
appear at all stricken with woe. The village gossips had 
not the smallest opportunity for establishing a romance, 
with a compulsory bride for the heroine. Yet to me it 
seemed as if there was something strange about her. A ' 
vague terror appeared to beset her. Even in her most 
loving moments, when resting in my arms, she would 
shrink away from me, and shudder as if some cold wind 
had suddenly struck upon her. That it was caused by no 
aversion to me was evident, for she would the moment 
after, as if to make amends, give me one of those volun- 
tary kisses that are sweeter than all others. 

I reflected over this gravely, as was my custom, but 
could come to no conclusion. I dismissed it as one of 
those mysteries of maidenhood which it is not given to 
man to fathom. 

The day came at length on which we were to be mar- 
ried, — a glorious autumnal day, on which the sweet sea- 
son of fruits and flowers seemed to have copied the kings 
of old, and robed itself in its brightest purple and gold, 
in order to die with becoming splendor. The little village 
church was nearly filled with the bridal party and the 
curious crowd who came to see the persevering lover win 
his bride. Elsie was calm, and grave, and beautiful. 
The sober beauty of the autumn itself seemed to tinge 
her face. 

Once only did she show any emotion. When the sol- 
emn question was put to her, the answer to which was to 
decide her destinv, I felt her hand — which was in mine 



378 ' MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

— tremble. As she gasped out a convulsive " Yes," she 
gave one brief, imploring glance at the gallery on the 
right. I placed the ring upon her finger, and. looked in 
the direction in which she gazed. Hammond Brake's 
dark countenance was visible looking over the railings, 
and his eyes were bent sternly on Elsie. I turned quickly 
round to my bride, but her brief emotion, of whatever 
nature, had vanished. She was looking at me anxiously, 
and smiling — somewhat sadly — through her maiden's 
tears. 

I kissed her, and whispered a loving word or two in 
her ear, at which she brightened ; and her grave, decorous 
old father, and quaint, tender-hearted mother, kissed her, 
and we rode all alone through glories of the autumn 
woods to our home. 



II. 

THE STRANGE BOOK. 

The months went by quickly, and we were very happy. 
I learned that Elsie really loved me, and of my love for 
her she had proof long ago. I will not say that there was 
no cloud upon our little horizon. There was one, but 
it was so small, and appeared so seldom, that I scarcely 
feared it. The old vague terror seemed still to attack my 
wife. If I did not know her to be pure as heaven's snow, 
I would have said it was a remorse. At times she scarcely 
appeared to hear what I said, so deep would be her rev- 
ery. Nor did those moods seem pleasant ones. When 
rapt in such, her sweet features would contract, as if in a 
hopeless effort to solve some mysterious problem. A sad 



A 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 379 

pain, as it were, quivered in her white, drooped eyeHds. 
One thing I particularly remarked : she spent hours at a 
time gazing at the west. There was a small room in our 
house whose windows, every evening, flamed with the red 
light of the setting sun. Here Elsie would sit and gaze 
westward, so motionless and entranced that it seemed as 
if her soul was going down with the day. Her conduct 
to me was curiously varied. She apparently loved me 
very much, yet there were times when she absolutely 
avoided me. I have seen her strolling through the fields, 
and left the house with the intention of joining her, but 
the moment she caught sight of me approaching, she has 
fled into the neighboring copse, with so evident a wish 
to avoid me that it would have been absolutely cruel to 
follow. 

Once or twice the old jealousy of Hammond Brake 
crossed my mind, but I was obliged to dismiss it as a 
frivolous suspicion. Nothing in my wife's conduct justi- 
fied any such theory. Brake visited us once or twice a 
week, — in fact, when I returned from my business in the 
village, I used to find him seated in the parlor with Elsie, 
reading some favorite author, or conversing on some novel 
literary topic ; but there was no disposition to avoid my 
scrutiny. Brake seemed to come as a matter of right ; 
and the perfect unconsciousness of furnishing any grounds 
for suspicion with which he acted was a sufficient answer 
to my mind for any wild doubts that my heart may have 
suggested. 

Still I could not but remark that Brake's visits were in 
some manner connected with Elsie's melancholy. On the 
days when he had appeared and departed the gloom 
seemed to hang more thickly than ever over her head. 
She sat, on such occasions, all the evening at the western 



380 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

window, silently gazing at the cleft in the hills through 
which the sun passed to his repose. 

At last I made up my mind to speak to her. It 
seemed to me to be my duty, if she had a sorrow, to par- 
take of it. I approached her on the matter with the 
most perfect confidence that I had nothing to learn beyond 
the existence of some girlish grief, which a confession and a 
few loving kisses would exorcise forever. 

" Elsie," I said to her one night, as she sat, according 
to her custom, gazing westward, like those maidens of the 
old ballads of chivalry watching for the knights that 
never came, — " Elsie, what is the matter with jou, dar- 
ling? I have noticed a strange melancholy in you for 
some time past. Tell me all about it." 

She turned quickly round and gazed at me with eyes 
wide open and face filled with a sudden fear. " Why do 
you ask me that, Mark 1 " she answered. " I have noth- 
ing to tell." 

From the strange, startled manner in which this reply 
was given, I felt convinced that she had something to 
tell, and instantly formed a determination to discover 
what it was. A pang shot through my heart as I thought 
that the woman whom I held dearer than anything on 
earth hesitated to trust me with a petty secret. 

" Elsie," I said, " don't treat me as if I was a grand 
inquisitor, with racks and thumb-screws in readiness for 
you if you prove contumacious. You need not look at 
me in that frightened way. I 'm not an ogre, child. I 
don't breakfast on nice, cosey little women five months 
married. Supposing you do owe a bill to the milliner, in 
Boston, — what does it matter 1 I 'm tolerably rich. 
How much is it 1 " 

I knew perfectly well that she did not owe any such 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 381 

bill, but it was a mode of testing her. A look of relief 
passed over her features as I spoke. 

" Mark," she said, stroking my hair with her little 
hand and smiling faintly, "you 're a goose. I don't owe 
any bill to the milliner in Boston, and I have no secret 
worth knowing. I know I 'm a little melancholy at 
times, — I feel weary ; but that is not unnatural, you 
know, just now, Mark dear," — kissing me on the lips, — 
"you must bear with my moods for a little while, until 
there are three of us, and then I '11 be better company." 

I knew what she alluded to, but, God help me ! I felt 
sad enough at the moment, though I kissed her back, and 
ceased to question her. I felt sad, because my instinct 
told me that she deceived me ; and it is very hard to be 
deceived, even in trifles, by those we love. I left her 
sitting at her favorite window, and walked out into the 
fields. I wanted to think. 

1 remained out until I saw lights in the parlor shining 
through the dusk evening ; then I returned slowly. As I 
passed the windows, — which were near the ground, our 
house being cottage-built, — I looked in. Hammond Brake 
was sitting with ray wife. She was sitting in a rocking-chair 
opposite to him, holding a small volume open on her lap. 
Brake was talking to her very earnestly, and she was listen- 
ing to him with an expression I had never before seen on 
her countenance. Awe, fear, and admiration were all 
blent together in those dilating eyes. She seemed ab- 
sorbed, body and soul, in what this man said. I shuddered 
at the sight. A vague terror seized upon me ; I hastened 
into the house. As I entered the room, rather suddenly, 
my wife started and hastily concealed the little volume 
that lay on her lap in one of her wide pockets. As she 
did so, a loose leaf escaped from the volume and slowly 



382 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

fluttered to the floor unobserved by either her or her 
companion. But I had my eye upon it. I felt that it 
was a clew. 

"What new novel or philosophical wonder have jou 
both been poring over 1 " I asked, quite gayly, stealthily 
watching at the same time the telltale embarrassment 
vuider which Elsie was laboring. 

Brake, who was not in the least discomposed, replied. 
''That," said he, "is a secret which must be kept from 
you. It is an advance copy, and is not to be shown to 
any one except your wife." 

" Ha ! " cried I, " I know what it is. It is your volume 
of poems that Ticknor is publishing. Well, I can wait 
until it is regularly for sale." 

I knew that Brake had a volume in the hands of the 
publishing house I mentioned, with a vague promise of 
publication some time in the present century. Hammond 
smiled significantly, but did not reply. He evidently 
wished to cultivate this supposed impression of mine. 
Elsie looked relieved, and heaved a deep sigh. I felt 
more than ever convinced that a secret was beneath all 
this. So I drew mji- chair over the fallen leaf that lay 
unnoticed on the carpet, and talked and laughed with 
Hammond Brake gayly, as if nothing was on my mind, 
while all the time a great load of suspicion lay heavily at 
my heart. 

At length Hammond Brake rose to go. I wished him 
good night, but did not ofl'er to accompany him to the 
door. My wife supplied this omitted courtesy, as I had 
expected. The moment I was alone I picked up the 
book-leaf from the floor. It was not the leaf of a volume 
of poems. Beyond that, however, I learned nothing. It 
contained a string of paragraphs printed in the Biblical 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 383 

fashion, and the language was Biblical in style. It seemed 
to be a jDortion of some religious book. Was it possible 
that my wife was being converted to the Romish faith ] 
Yes, that was it. Brake was a Jesuit in disguise, — I 
had heard of such things, — and had stolen into the 
bosom of my family to plant there his destructive errors. 
There could be no longer any doubt of it. This was 
some portion of a Romish book; — some infamous Pop- 
ish publication. Fool that I was not to see it all be- 
fore ! But there was yet time. I would forbid him 
the house. 

I had just formed this resolution when my wife entered. 
I put the strange leaf in my pocket and took my hat. 

" Why, you are not going out, surely 1 " cried Elsie, 
surprised. 

" I have a headache," I answered. " I will take a short 
walk." 

Elsie looked at me with a peculiar air of distrust. Her 
woman's instinct told her that there was something wrong. 
Before she could question me, however, I had left the 
room and was walking rapidly on Hammond Brake's 
track. 

He heard the footsteps, and 1 saw his figure, black 
against the sky, stop and peer back through the dusk to 
see who was following him. 

'' It is I, Brake," I called out. " Stop ; I wish to speak 
with you." 

He stopped, and in a minute or so we were walking 
side by side along the road. My fingers itched at that 
moment to be on his throat. I commenced the conver- 
sation. 

" Brake," I said, " I 'm a very plain sort of man,. and I 
never say anything without good reason. What I came 



384 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

after you to tell jon is, that I don't wish you to come to 
my house any more, or to speak with Elsie any farther 
than the ordinary salutations go. It 's no joke. I 'm 
quite in earnest." 

Brake started, and, stopping short, faced nie suddenly 
in the road. ''What have I done*?" he asked. "You 
surely are too sensible a man to be jealous, Dayton." 

"0," I answered, scornfully, "not jealous in the ordi- 
nary sense of the word, a bit. But I don't think your 
company good company for my wife. Brake. If you will 
have it out of me, I suspect you of being a Roman Catho- 
lic, and of trying to convert my wife." 

A smile shot across his face, and I saw his sharp, white 
teeth gleam for an instant in the dusk. 

" Well, what if I am a Papist 1 " he said, with a strange 
tone of triumph in his voice. " The faith is not criminal. 
Besides, what proof have you that I was attempting to 
proselyte your wife 1 " 

" This," said I, pulling the leaf from my pocket, — 
"this leaf from one of those devilish Papist books you 
and she were reading this evening. I picked it up from 
the floor. Proof enough, I think ! " 

In an instant Brake had snatched the leaf from my 
hand and torn it into atoms. 

" You shall be obeyed," he said. " I will not speak 
with Elsie as long as she is j'our wife. Good night. So 
you think I 'm a Papist, Dayton 1 You 're a clever fel- 
low ! " And with rather a sneering chuckle he marched 
on along the road and vanished into the darkness. 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 385 

III. 

THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 

Brake came no more. I said nothing to Elsie about 
his prohibition, and his name was never mentioned. It 
seemed strange to me that she should not speak of his 
absence, and I was very much puzzled by her silence. 
Her moodiness seemed to have increased, and, what was 
most remarkable, in proportion as she grew more and 
more reserved, the intenser were the bursts of affection 
which she exhibited for me. She would strain me to 
her bosom and kiss me, as if she and I were about to be 
parted forever. Then for hours she would remain sitting 
at her window, silently gazing, with that terrible, wistful 
gaze of hers, at the west. 

I will confess to having watched my wife at this time. 
I could not help it. That some mystery hung about 
her I felt convinced. I must fathom it or die. Her 
honor I never for a moment doubted ; yet there seemed 
to weigh continually upon me the prophecy of some aw- 
ful domestic calamity. This time the prophecy was not 
in vain. 

About three weeks after I had forbidden Brake my 
house, I was strolling over my farm in the evening, 
apparently inspecting my agriculture, but in reality 
speculating on that topic which latterly was ever present 
to me. 

There was a little knoll covered with evergreen oaks 
at the end of the lawn. It was a picturesque spot, for 
on one side the bank went off into a sheer precipice of 
about eighty feet in depth, at the bottom of which a 
pretty pool lay, that in the summer time was fringed 

25 



386 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

with white water-liHes. I had thought of building a 
summer-house in this spot, and now my steps mechani- 
cally directed themselves toward the place. As I ap- 
proached I heard voices. I stopped and listened eagerly. 
A few seconds enabled me to ascertain that Hammond 
Brake and my wife were in the copse talking together. 
She still followed him, then; and he, scoundrel that he 
was, had broken his jDromise. A fury seemed to fill my 
veins as I made this discovery. I felt the impulse strong 
upon me to rush into the grove, and then and there 
strangle the villain who was poisoning my peace. But 
with a powerful effort I restrained myself. It was neces- 
sary that I should overhear what was said. I threw 
myself flat on the grass, and so glided silently into the 
copse until I was completely within ear-shot. This was 
what I heard. 

My wife was sobbing. " So soon, — so soon 1 Ham- 
mond, give me a little time ! " 

" I cannot, Elsie. My chief orders me to join him. 
You must prepare to accompany me." 

" No, no ! " murmured Elsie. " He loves me so ! And 
I love him. Our child, too, — how can I rob him of our 
unborn babe 1 " 

"Another sheep for our flock," answered Brake, sol- 
emnly. " Elsie, do you forget your oath 1 Are you one 
of us, or are you a common hypocrite, who will be of us 
until the hour of self-sacrifice, and then fly like a coward 1 
Elsie, you must leave to-night." 

" Ah ! my husband, my husband ! " sobbed the unhappy 
woman. 

"You have no husband, woman," cried Brake, harshly. 
*' I promised Dayton not to speak to you as long as you 
were his wife, but the vow was annulled before it was 



a 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 387 

made. Your husband in God jet awaits you. You will 
yet be blessed with the true spouse." 

" I feel as if I were going to die," cried Elsie. " How 
can I ever forsake him, — he who was so good to me ? " 

" Nonsense ! no weakness. He is not worthy of you. 
Go home and prepare for your journey. You know 
where to meet me. I will have everything ready, and 
by daybreak there shall be no trace of us left. Be- 
ware of permitting your husband to suspect anything. 
He is not very shrewd at such things, — he thought I 
was a Jesuit in disguise, — but we had better be careful. 
Now go. You have been too long here already. Bless 
you, sister." 

A few faint sobs, a rustling of leaves, and I knew that 
Brake was alone. I rose, and stepped silently into the 
open space in which he stood. His back was toward me. 
His arms were lifted high over his head with an exultant 
gesture, and I could see his profile, as it slightly turned 
toward me, illuminated with a smile of scornful triumph. 
I put my hand suddenly on his throat from behind, and 
flung him on the ground before he could utter a cry. 

" Not a word," I said, unclasping a short-bladed knife 
which I carried; "answer my questions, or, by heaven, 
I will cut your throat from ear to ear ! " 

He looked up into my face with an unflinching eye, and 
set his lips as if resolved to suff'er all. 

"What are you? Who are you] What object have 
you in the seduction of my wife 1 " 

He smiled, but was silent. 

" Ah ! you won't answer. We '11 see." 

I pressed the knife slowly against his throat. His face 
contracted spasmodically, but although a thin red thread 
of blood sprang out along the edge of the blade, Brake 



388 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 

remained mute. An idea suddenly seized me. This sort 
of death had no terrors for him. I would try another. 
There was the precipice. I was twice as powerful as he 
was, so I seized him in my arms, and in a moment trans- 
ported him to the margin of the steep, smooth cliff, the 
edge of which was garnished with the tough stems of the 
wild vine. He seemed to feel it was useless to struggle 
with me, so allowed me passively to roll him over the 
edge. When he was suspended in the air, I gave him a 
vine stem to cling to and let him go. He swung at 
a height of eighty feet, with face ui^turned and pale. 
He dared not look down. I seated myself on the edge of 
the cliff, and with my knife began to cut into the thick 
vine a foot or two above the place of his grasp. I was 
correct in my calculation. This terror was too much for 
him. As he saw the notch in the vine getting deeper 
and deeper, his determination gave way. 

*' I '11 answer you," he gasped out, gazing at me with 
starting eyeballs ; " what do you ask 1 " 

" What are you 1 " was my question, as I ceased cutting 
at the stem. 

" A Mormon," was the answer, uttered with a groan. 
" Take me up. My hands are slipping. Quick ! " 

" And you wanted my wife to follow you to that infernal 
Salt Lake City, I suppose 1 " 

" For God's sake, release me ! I '11 quit the place, never 
to come back. Do help me up, Dayton, — I 'm falling ! " 

I felt mightily inclined to let the villain drop ; but it 
did not suit my purpose to be hung for murder, so I 
swung him back again on the sward, where he fell panting 
and exhausted. 

" Will you quit the place to-night ? " I said. " You 'd 
better. By Heaven, if you don't, I '11 tell all the men in 



MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 389 

the village, and we '11 lynch you, as sure as your name is 
Brake." 

" I '11 go, — I '11 go," he groaned. " I swear never to 
trouble you again." 

" You ought to be hanged, you villain. Be off ! " 

He slunk away through the trees like a beaten dog; 
and I went home in a state bordering on despair. I 
found Elsie crying. She was sitting by the window as of 
old. I knew now why she gazed so constantly at the 
west. It was her Mecca. Something in my face, I sup- 
pose, told her that I was laboring under great excitement. 
She rose startled, as soon as I entered the room. 

" Elsie," said I, " I am come to take you home." 

" Home 1 Why, I am at home, am I not 1 What do 
you mean 1 " 

"No. This is no longer your home. You have de- 
ceived me. You are a Mormon. I know all. You have 
become a convert to that apostle of hell, Brigham Young, 
and jon cannot live with me. I love you still, Elsie, 
dearly; but — you must go and live with your father." 

She saw there was no appeal from my word, and with 
a face hopeless with despair she arranged her dress and 
passively went with me. 

I live in the same village with my wife, and yet am a 
widower. She is very penitent, they say ; yet I cannot 
bring myself to believe that one who has allowed the 
Mormon poison to enter her veins can ever be cured. 
People say that we shall come together again, but I know 
better. Mine is not the first hearth that Mormonism has 
rendered desolate. 



390 WHAT WAS IT? 



WHAT WAS IT? 



It is, I confess, with considerable diffidence that I ap- 
proach the strange narrative which I am about to relate. 
The events which I purpose detailing are of so extraordi- 
nary a character that I am quite prepared to meet with 
an unusual amount of incredulity and scorn. I accept 
all such beforehand. I have, I trust, the literary courage 
to face unbelief. I have, after mature consideration, 
resolved to narrate, in as simple and straightforward a 
manner as I can compass, some facts that passed under 
my observation, in the month of July last, and which, 
in the annals of the mysteries of physical science, are 
wholly unparalleled. 

I live at No. — Twenty-sixth Street, in New York. The 
house is in some respects a curious one. It has enjoyed 
for the last two years the reputation of being haunted. 
It is a large and stately residence, surrounded by what 
was once a garden, but which is now only a green enclos- 
ure used for bleaching clothes. The dry basin of what 
has been a fountain, and a few fruit-trees ragged and 
unpruned, indicate that this spot in past days was a 
pleasant, shady retreat, filled with fruits and flowers and 
the sweet murmur of waters. 

The house is very spacious. A hall of noble size leads 
to a large spiral staircase winding through its centre, 



WHAT WAS IT? 391 

while the various apartments are of imposing dimen- 
sions. It was built some fifteen or twenty years since by 

Mr. A , the well-known New York merchant, who five 

years ago threw the commercial world into convulsions by 

a stupendous bank fraud. Mr. A , as every one knows, 

escaped to Europe, and died not long after, of a broken 
heart. Almost immediately after the news of his decease 
reached this country and was verified, the report spread 
in Twenty-sixth Street that No. — was haunted. Legal 
measures had dispossessed the widow of its former owner, 
and it was inhabited merely by a care-taker and his wife, 
placed there by the house-agent into whose hands it had 
passed for purposes of renting or sale. These people de- 
clared that they were troubled with unnatural noises. 
Doors were opened without any visible agency. The 
remnants of furniture scattered through the various rooms 
were, during the night, piled one upon the other by un- 
known hands. Invisible feet passed up and down the 
stairs in broad daylight, accompanied by the rustle of 
unseen silk dresses, and the gliding of viewless hands 
along the massive balusters. The care-taker and his wife 
declared they would live there no longer. The house- 
agent laughed, dismissed them, and put others in their 
place. The noises and supernatural manifestations con- 
tinued. The neighborhood caught up the story, and the 
house remained untenanted for three years. Several per- 
sons negotiated for it; but, somehow, always before the 
bargain was closed they heard the unpleasant rumors 
and declined to treat any further. 

It was in this state of things that my landlady, who 
at that time kept a boarding-house in Bleecker Street, 
and who wished to move further up town, conceived the 
bold idea of renting No., — Twenty-sixth Street. Hap- 



392 WHAT WAS IT? 

pening to have in her house rather a plucky and philo- 
sophical set of boarders, she laid her scheme before us, 
stating candidly everything she had heard respecting the 
ghostly qualities of the establishment to which she wished 
to remove us. With the exception of two timid persons, 
— a sea-captain and a returned Californian, who imme- 
diately gave notice that they would leave, — all of Mrs. 
Moffat's guests declared that they would accompany her 
in her chivalric incursion into the abode of spirits. 

Our removal was effected in the month of May, and we 
were charmed with our new residence. The portion of 
Twenty-sixth Street where our house is situated, between 
Seventh and Eighth Avenues, is one of the pleasantest 
localities in New York. The gardens back of the houses, 
running down nearly to the Hudson, form, in the sum- 
mer time, a perfect avenue of verdure. The air is pure 
and invigorating, sweeping, as it does, straight across the 
river from the Weehawken heights, and even the ragged 
garden which surrounded the house, although displaying 
on washing days rather too much clothes-line, still gave 
ns a piece of greensward to look at, and a cool retreat 
in the summer evenings, where we smoked our cigars in 
the dusk, and watched the fire-flies flashing their dark- 
lanterns in the long grass. 

Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at 
No. — than we began to expect the ghosts. We abso- 
lutely awaited their advent with eagerness. Our dinner 
conversation was supernatural. One of the boarders, 
who had purchased Mrs. Crowe's " Night Side of Nature " 
for his own private delectation, was regarded as a public 
enemy by the entire household for not having bought 
twenty copies. The man led a life, of supreme wretch- 
edness while he was reading this volume. A system of 



WHAT WAS IT? 393 

espionage was established, of which he was the victim. 
If he incautiously laid the book down for an instant 
and left the i^Dom, it was immediately seized and read 
aloud in secret places to a select few. I found myself a 
person of immense importance, it having leaked out that 
I was tolerably well versed in the history of supernatu- 
ralism, and had once written a story the foundation of 
which was a ghost. If a table or a wainscot panel hap- 
pened to warp when we were assembled in the large 
drawing-room, there was an instant silence, and every 
one was prepared for an immediate clanking of chains 
and a spectral form. 

After a month of psychological excitement, it was with 
the utmost dissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowl- 
edge that nothing in the remotest degree approaching 
the supernatural had manifested itself. Once the black 
butler asseverated that his candle had been blown out by 
some invisible agency while he was undressing himself 
for the night ; but as I had more than once discovered 
this colored gentleman in a condition when one candle 
must have appeared to him like two, I thought it possible 
that, by going a step further in his potations, he might 
have reversed this phenomenon, and seen no candle at all 
where he ought to have beheld one. 

Things were in this state when an incident took place 
so awful and inexplicable in its character that my reason 
fairly reels at the bare memory of the occurrence. It was 
the tenth of July. After dinner was over I repaired, with 
my friend Dr. Hammond, to the garden to smoke my 
evening pipe. Independent of certain mental sympathies 
which existed between the Doctor and myself, we were 
linked together by a vice. We both smoked opium. We 
knew each other's secret, and respected it. We enjoyed 



394 WHAT WAS IT? 

together that wonderful expansion of thought, that mar- 
vellous intensifying of the perceptive faculties, that bound- 
less feeling of existence when we seem to have points of 
contact with the whole universe, — in short, that unim- 
aginable spiritual bliss, which I would not surrender for a 
throne, and which I hope you, reader, will never — never 
taste. 

Those hours of opium happiness which the Doctor and 
I spent together in secret were regulated with a scientific 
accuracy. We did not blindly smoke the drug of para- 
dise, and leave our dreams to chance. While smoking, 
we carefully steered our conversation through the bright- 
est and calmest channels of thought. We talked of the 
East, and endeavored to recall the magical panorama of 
its glowing scenery. We criticised the most sensuous 
poets, — those who painted life ruddy with health, brim- 
ming with passion, happy in the possession of youth 
and strength and beauty. If we talked of Shakespeare's 
" Tempest," we lingered over Ariel, and avoided Cahban. 
Like the Guebers, we turned our faces to the east, and 
saw only the sunny side of the world. 

This skilful coloring of our train of thought produced 
in our subsequent visions a corresponding tone. The 
splendors of Arabian fairy-land dyed our dreams. We 
paced that narrow strip of grass with the tread and port 
of kings. The song of the rana arhorea, while he clung 
to the bark of the ragged plum-tree, sounded like the 
strains of divine musicians. Houses, walls, and streets 
melted like rain-clouds, and vistas of unimaginable glory 
stretched away before us. It was a rapturous compan- 
ionship. We enjoyed the vast delight more perfectly 
because, even in our most ecstatic moments, we were 
conscious of each other's presence. Our pleasures, while 



I 



WHAT WAS IT? 395 

individual, were still twin, vibrating and moving in mu- 
sical accord. 

On the evening in question, the tenth of July, the 
Doctor and myself drifted into an unusually metaphysi- 
cal mood. We lit our large meerschaums, filled with fine 
Turkish tobacco, in the core of which burned a little 
black nut of opium, that, like the nut in the fairy tale, 
held within its narrow, limits wonders beyond the reach 
of kings ; we paced to and fro, conversing. A strange 
perversity dominated the currents of our thought. They 
would not flow through the sun-lit channels into which we 
strove to divert them. For some unaccountable reason, 
they constantly diverged into dark and lonesome beds, 
where a continual gloom brooded. It was in vain that, 
after our old fashion, we flung ourselves on the shores of 
the East, and talked of its gay bazaars, of the splendors 
of the time of Haroun, of harems and golden palaces. 
Black afreets continually arose from the depths of our 
talk, and expanded, like the one the fisherman released 
from the copper vessel, until they blotted everything 
bright from our vision. Insensibly, we yielded to the 
occult force that swayed us, and indulged in gloomy spec- 
ulation. We had talked some time upon the proneness 
of the human mind to mysticism, and the almost univer- 
sal love of the terrible, when Hammond suddenly said 
to me, " What do you consider to be the greatest element 
of terror 1" 

The question puzzled me. That many things were 
terrible, I knew. Stumbling over a corpse in the dark ; 
beholding, as I once did, a woman floating down a deep 
and rapid river, with wildly lifted arms, and awful, up- 
turned face, uttering, as she drifted, shrieks that rent 
one's heart, while we, the spectators, stood frozen at a 



396 WHAT WAS IT? 

window which overhung the river at a height of sixty 
feet, unable to make the shghtest effort to save her, but 
dumbly watching her last supreme agony and her dis- 
appearance. A shattered wreck, with no life visible, en- 
countered floating listlessly on the ocean, is a terrible 
object, for it suggests a huge terror, the proportions of 
which are veiled. But it now struck me, for the first 
time, that there must be one great and ruling embodiment 
of fear, — a King of Terrors, to which all others must 
succumb. What might it be 1 To what train of circum- 
stances would it owe its existence 1 

"I confess, Hammond," I replied to my friend, "I 
never considered the subject before. That there must be 
one Something more terrible than any other thing, I feel. 
I cannot attempt, however, even the most vague defini- 
tion." 

" I am somewhat like you, Harry," he answered. " I 
feel my capacity to experience a terror greater than any- 
thing yet conceived by the human mind ; — something 
combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamation hitherto 
supposed incompatible elements. The calling of the voices 
in Brockden Brown's novel of ' Wieland ' is awful ; so is 
the picture of the Dweller of the Threshold, in Bulwer's 
'Zanoni'j but," he added, shaking his head gloomily, 
"there is something more horrible still than these." 

"Look here, Hammond," I rejoined, "let us drop this 
kind of talk, for heaven's sake ! We shall suffer for it, 
depend on it." 

" I don't know what's the matter with me to-night," 
he replied, "but my brain is running upon all sorts of 
weird and awful thoughts. I feel as if I could write a 
story like Hoffman, to-night, if I were only master of a 
literary style." 



I 



WHAT WAS IT? 397 

"Well, if we are going to be HofFmanesque in our talk, 
I 'm off to bed. Opium and nightmares should never be 
brought together. How sultry it is ! Good-night, Ham- 
mond." 

" Good-night, Harry. Pleasant dreams to you." 

"To you, gloomy wretch, afreets, ghouls, and enchant- 
ers." 

We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. I 
undressed quickly and got into bed, taking with me, ac- 
cording to my usual custom, a book, over which I gener- 
ally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as soon 
as I had laid my head upon the pillow, and instantly flung 
it to the other side of the room. It was Goudon's " His- 
tory of Monsters," — a curious French work, which I had 
lately imported from Paris, but which, in the state of 
mind I had then reached, was anything but an agreeable 
companion. I resolved to go to sleep at once ; so, turn- 
ing down my gas until nothing but a little blue point of 
light glimmered on the top of the tube, I composed my- 
self to rest. 

The room was in total darkness. The atom of gas that 
still remained alight did not illuminate a distance of 
three inches round the burner. I desperately drew my 
arm across my eyes, as if to shut out even the darkness, 
and tried to think of nothing. It was in vain. The 
confounded themes touched on by Hammond in the gar- 
den kept obtruding themselves on my brain. I battled 
^against them. I erected ramparts of would-be blankness 
of intellect to keep them out. They still crowded upon 
me. While I was lying still as a corpse, hoping that by 
a perfect physical inaction I should hasten mental repose, 
an awful incident occurred. A Something dropped, as it 
seemed, from the ceiling, plumb upon my chest, and the 



398 WHAT WAS IT? 

next instant I felt two bony hands encircling my throat, 
endeavoring to choke me. 

I am no coward, and am possessed of considerable phys- 
ical strength. The suddenness of the attack, instead of 
stunning mCj^strung every nerve to its highest tension. 
My body acted from instinct, before my brain had time 
to realize the terrors of my position. In an instant I 
wound two muscular arms around the creature, and 
squeezed it, w^ith all the strength of despair, against my 
chest; In a few seconds the bony hands that had fas- 
tened on my throat loosened their hold, and I was free to 
breathe once more. Then commenced a struggle of awful 
intensity. Immersed in the most profound darkness, to- 
tally ignorant of the nature of the Thing by which I was 
so suddenly attacked, finding my grasp slipping every 
moment, by reason, it seemed to me, of the entire naked- 
ness of my assailant, bitten with sharp teeth in the shoul- 
der, neck, and chest, having every moment to protect my 
throat against a pair of sinewy, agile hands, which my ut- 
most efforts could not confine, — these were a combination 
of circumstances to combat which required all the strength, 
skill, and courage that I possessed. 

At last, after a silent, deadly, exhausting struggle, I 
got my assailant under by a series of incredible efforts of 
strength. Once pinned, with my knee on what I made 
out to be its chest, I knew that I was victor. I rested 
for a moment to breathe. I heard the creature beneath 
me panting in the darkness, and felt the violent throb- 
bing of a heart. It was apparently as exhausted as 
I was ; that was one comfort. At this moment I re- 
membered that I usually placed under my pillow, be- 
fore going to bed, a large yellow silk pocket-handker- 
chief. I felt for it instantly; it was there. In a few 



WHAT WAS IT? 399 

seconds more I had, after a fashion, pinioned the crea- 
ture's arms. 

I now felt tolerably secure. There was nothing more 
to be done but to turn on the gas, and, having first seen 
what my midnight assailant was like, arouse the house- 
hold. I will confess to being actuated by a certain pride 
in not giving the alarm before ; I wished to make the 
capture alone and unaided. 

Never losing my hold for an instant, I slipped from the 
bed to the floor, dragging my captive with me. I had 
but a few steps to make to reach the gas-burner ; these I 
made with the greatest caution, holding the creature in a 
grip like a vice. At last I got within arm's-length of the 
tiny speck of blue light which told me where the gas- 
burner lay. Quick as lightning I released my grasp with 
one hand and let on the full flood of light. Then I turned 
to look at my captive. 

I cannot even attempt to give any definition of my sen- 
sations the instant after I turned on the gas. I suppose 
I must have shrieked with terror, for in less than a minute 
afterward ray room was crowded with the inmates of the 
house. I shudder now as I think of that awful moment. 
/ saw nothing ! Yes ; I had one arm firmly clasped round 
a breathing, panting, corporeal shape, my other hand 
gripped with all its strength a throat as warm, and ap- 
parently fleshly, as my own ; and yet, with this living 
substance in my grasp, with its body pressed against my 
own, and all in the bright glare of a large jet of gas, I 
absolutely beheld nothing ! Not even an outline, — a 
vapor ! 

I do not, even at this hour, realize the situation in which 
I found myself. I cannot recall the astounding incident 
thoroughly. Imagination in vain tries to compass the 
awful paradox. 



400 WHAT WAS IT ? 

It breathed. I felt its warm breath upon my cheek. 
It struggled fiercely. It had hands. They clutched me. 
Its skin was smooth, like my own. There it lay, pressed 
close up against me, solid as stone, — and yet utterly 
invisible ! 

I wonder that I did not faint or go mad on the instant. 
Some wonderful instinct must have sustained me ; for, 
absolutely, in place of loosening my hold on the terrible 
Enigma, I seemed to gain an additional strength in my 
moment of horror, and tightened my grasp with such won- 
derful force that I felt the creature shivering with agony. 

Just then Hammond entered my room at the head of 
the household. As soon as he beheld my face — which, 
I suppose, must have been an awful sight to look at — 
he hastened forward, crying, " Great heaven, Harry ! 
what has happened?" 

" Hammond ! Hammond ! " I cried, " come here. 0, 
this is awful ! I have been attacked in bed by something 
or other, which I have hold of; but I can't see it, — I 
can't see it ! " 

Hammond, doubtless struck by the unfeigned horror 
expressed in my countenance, made one or two steps for- 
ward with an anxious yet puzzled expression. A very 
audible titter burst from the remainder of my visitors. 
This suppressed laughter made me furious. To laugh at 
a human being in my position ! It was the worst species 
of cruelty. Noiv, I can understand why the appearance 
of a man struggling violently, as it would seem, with an 
airy nothing, and calling for assistance against a vision, 
should have appeared ludicrous. Then, so great was my 
rage against the mocking crowd that had I the power I 
would have stricken them dead where they stood. 

" Hammond ! Hammond ! " I cried again, despairingly, 



WHAT WAS IT? 401 

"for God's sake come to me. I can hold the — the thing 
but a short while longer. It is overpowering me. Help 
me ! Help me ! " 

" Harry," whispered Hammond, approaching me, " you 
have been smoking too much opium." 

" I swear to you, Hammond, that this is no vision," I 
answered, in the same low tone. " Don't you see how it 
shakes my whole frame with its struggles 1 If you don't 
believe me, convince yourself. Feel it, — touch it." 

Hammond advanced and laid his hand in the spot I 
indicated. A wild cry of horror burst from him. He 
had felt it! 

In a moment he had discovered somewhere in my room 
a long piece of cord, and was the next instant winding it 
and knotting it about the body of the unseen being that 
I clasped in my arms. 

" Harry," he said, in a hoarse, agitated voice, for, 
though he preserved his presence of mind, he was deeply 
moved, " Harry, it 's all safe now. You may let go, old 
fellow, if you 're tired. The Thing can't move." 

I was utterly exhausted, and I gladly loosed my hold. 

Hammond stood holding the ends of the cord that bound 
the Invisible, twisted round his hand, while before him, self- 
supporting as it were, he beheld a rope laced and inter- 
laced, and stretching tightly around a vacant space. I 
never saw a man look so thoroughly stricken with awe. 
Nevertheless his face expressed all the courage and deter- 
mination which I knew him to possess. His lips, although 
white, were set firmly, and one could perceive at a glance 
that, although stricken with fear, he was not daunted. 

The confusion that ensued among the guests of the 
house who were witnesses of this extraordinary scene be- 
tween Hammond and myself, — who beheld the panto- 

26 



402 WHAT WAS IT ? 

mime of binding this struggling Something, — who beheld 
me almost sinking from physical exhaustion when my task 
of jailer was over, — the confusion and terror that took 
possession of the bystanders, when they saw all this, was 
beyond description. The weaker ones fled from the apart- 
ment. The few who remained clustered near the door 
and could not be induced to approach Hammond and 
his Charge. Still incredulity broke out through their 
terror. They had not the courage to satisfy themselves, 
and yet they doubted. It was in vain that I begged of 
some of the men to come near and convince themselves 
by touch of the existence in that room of a living being 
which was invisible. They were incredulous, but did 
not dare to undeceive themselves. How could a solid, 
living, breathing body be invisible, they asked. My reply 
was this. I gave a sign to Hammond, and both of us — 
conquering our fearful repugnance to touch the invisible 
creature — lifted it from the ground, manacled as it was, 
and took it to my bed. Its weight was about that of a 
boy of fourteen. 

"Now, my friends," I said, as Hammond and myself 
held the creature suspended over the bed, "I can give 
you self-evident proof that here is a solid, ponderable 
body, which, nevertheless, you cannot see. Be good 
enough to watch the surface of the bed attentively." 

I was astonished at my own courage in treating this 
strange event so calmly ; but I had recovered from my 
first terror, and felt a sort of scientific pride in the affair, 
which dominated every other feeling. 

The eyes of the bystanders were immediately fixed on 
my bed. At a given signal Hammond and I let the crea- 
ture fall. There was the dull sound of a heavy body 
alighting on a soft mass. The timbers of the bed creaked. 



WHAT WAS IT? 403 

A deep impression marked itself distinctly on the pillow, 
and on the bed itself. The crowd who witnessed this gave 
a low cry, and rushed from the room. Hammond and I 
were left alone with our Mystery. 

We remained silent for some time, listening to the low, 
irregular breathing of the creature on the bed, and watch- 
ing the rustle of the bed-clothes as it impotently struggled 
to free itself from confinement. Then Hammond spoke. 

" Harry, this is awful." 

"Ay, awful." 

" But not unaccountable." 

" Not unaccountable ! What do you mean 1 Such a 
thing has never occurred since the birth of the world. I 
know not what to think, Hammond. God grant that I 
am not mad, and that this is not an insane fantasy ! " 

" Let us reason a little, Harry. Here is a solid body 
which we touch, but which we cannot see. The fact is 
so unusual that it strikes us with terror. Is there no par- 
allel, though, for such a phenomenon *? Take a piece of 
pure glass. It is tangible and transparent. A certain 
chemical coarseness is all that prevents its being so en- 
tirely transparent as to be totally invisible. It is not 
theoretically impossible, mind you, to make a glass which 
shall not reflect a single ray of light, — a glass so pure 
and homogeneous in its atoms that the rays from the 
sun will pass through it as they do through the air, re- 
fracted but not reflected. We do not see the air, and yet 
we feel it." 

" That 's all very well, Hammond, but these are inani- 
mate substances. Glass does not breathe, air does not 
breathe. This thing has a heart that palpitates, — a will 
that moves it, — lungs that play, and inspire and respire." 

" You forget the phenomena of which we have so often 



404r WHAT WAS IT? 

heard of late," answered the Doctor, gravely. ''At the 
meetings called ' spirit circles,' invisible hands have been 
thrust into the hands of those persons round the table, — 
warm, fleshly hands that seemed to pulsate with mortal 
life." 

" What ] Do you think, then, that this thing is — " 

" I don't know what it is," was the solemn reply ; " but 
please the gods I will, with your assistance, thoroughly 
investigate it." 

We watched together, smoking many pipes, all night 
long, by the bedside of the unearthly being that tossed 
and panted until it was apparently wearied out. Then 
we learned by the low, regular breathing that it slept. 

The next morning the house was all astir. The board- 
ers congregated on the landing outside my room, and 
Hammond and myself were lions. We had to answer a 
thousand questions as to the state of our extraordinary 
prisoner, for as yet not one person in the house except 
ourselves could be induced to set foot in the apartment. 

The creature was awake. This was evidenced by the 
convulsive manner in which the bed-clothes were moved 
in its efforts to escape. There was something truly ter- 
rible in beholding, as it were, those second-hand indica- 
tions of the terrible writhings and agonized struggles for 
liberty which themselves were invisible. 

Hammond and myself had racked our brains during the 
long night to discover some means by which we might 
realize the shape and general appearance of the Enigma. 
As well as we could make out by passing our hands over 
the creature's form, its outlines and lineaments were hu- 
man. There was a mouth ; a round, smooth head with- 
out hair ; a uose, which, however, was little elevated above 
the cheeks ; and its hands and feet felt like those of a 



WHAT WAS IT? 405 

boy. At first we thought of placing the being on a 
smooth surface and tracing its outline with chalk, as 
shoemakers trace the outline of the foot. This plan was 
given up as being of no value. Such an outline would 
give not the slightest idea of its conformation. 

A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast of 
it in plaster of Paris. This would give us the solid fig- 
ure, and satisfy all our wishes. But how to do it 1 The 
movements of the creature would disturb the setting of 
the plastic covering, and distort the mould. Another 
thought. Why not give it chloroform 1 It had respira- 
tory organs, — that was evident by its breathing. Once 
reduced to a state of insensibility, we could do with it 

what we would. Doctor X was sent for ; and after 

the worthy physician had recovered from the first shock 
of amazement, he proceeded to administer the chloroform. 
In three minutes afterward we were enabled to remove 
the fetters from the creature's body, and a modeller was 
busily engaged in covering the invisible form with the 
moist clay. In five minutes more we had a mould, and 
before evening a rough facsimile of the Mystery. It was 
shaped like a man, — distorted, uncouth, and horrible, but 
still a man. It was small, not over four feet and some 
inches in height, and its limbs revealed a muscular de- 
velopment that was unparalleled. Its face surpassed in 
hideousness anything I had ever seen. Gustavo Dore, 
or Callot, or Tony Johannot, never conceived anything so 
horrible. There is a face in one of the latter's illustra- 
tions to Un Voyage ou il vous 2)laira, which somewhat 
approaches the countenance of this creature, but does not 
equal it. It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy 
a ghoul might be. It looked as if it was capable of feed- 
ing on human flesh. 



406 WHAT WAS IT? 

Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound every one in 
the house to secrecy, it became a question what was to 
be done with our Enigma? It was impossible that we 
should keep such a horror in our house ; it was equally 
impossible that such an awful being should be let loose 
upon the world. I confess that I would have gladly 
voted for the creature's destruction. But who would 
shoulder the responsibility 1 Who would undertake the 
execution of this horrible semblance of a human being 1 
Day after day this question was deliberated gravely. The 
boarders all left the house. Mrs. Moffat was in despair, 
and threatened Hammond and myself with all sorts of 
legal penalties if we did not remove the Horror. Our an- 
swer was, " We will go if you like, but we decline taking 
this creature with us. Remove it yourself if you please. 
It appeared in your house. On you the responsibility 
rests." To this there was, of course, no answer. Mrs. 
Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who 
would even approach the Mystery. 

The most singular part of the affair was that we were 
entirely ignorant of what the creature habitually fed on. 
Everything in the way of nutriment that we could think 
of was placed before it, but was never touched. It was 
awful to stand by, day after day, and see the clothes 
toss, and hear the hard breathing, and know that it was 
starving. 

Ten, twelve days, a fortnight passed, and it still lived. 
The pulsations of the heart, however, were daily growing 
fainter, and had now nearly ceased. It was evident that 
the creature was dying for want of sustenance. While 
this terrible life-struggle was going on, I felt miserable. 
I could not sleep. Horrible as the creature was, it was 
pitiful to think of the pangs it was sujQfering. 



WHAT WAS IT? 407 

At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and 
stiff one morning in the bed. The heart had ceased to 
beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastened to bury it in the 
garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of that 
viewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of its form 

I gave to Doctor X , who keeps it in his museum in 

Tenth Street. 

As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I may 
dot return, I have drawn up this narrative of an event 
the most singular that has ever come to my knowledge. 



408 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 



DUKE HUMPHEEY'S DINISTEE * 



" Have we no more coal, Agnes 1 " 

" No more." 

" What the deuce are we going to do for fire 1 " 

" I have n't the slightest idea, Dick. You 're clever. 
Why don't you invent some way of warming one's self 
without the aid of fire 1 " 

'' If 3^ou were a man I could box with you," said Dick, 
looking meditatively at his wife as if wondering whether 
she could stand a round or two. " Boxing warms one up 
famously ; but then we have no gloves." 

" No," said Agnes, with a laugh, " and we shall have 
no shoes either in a very short time," — and she pushed 
out, as she spoke, a little foot with a dilapidated slipper 
on it. 

" What a funny thing it is to have no money, Agnes ! " 
said Dick, gazing at a very small fire which smouldered 
in the grate, with a rather contemplative air. " Do you 
know that, if it was n't so confoundedly cold, I 'd rather 
enjoy poverty. Now in summer-time there must be 
something very piquant in misery." 

* O'Brien wrote a little comedy on the same subject treated in 
this story, which was produced at "VVallack's Theatre, February 
4th, 1856, with Mr. Lester Wallack as Burdoon, and Mrs. Hoey as 
Agnes. — Ed. 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 409 

" Only to think," answered Agnes, " of the thousands 
of dollars that I 've thrown away on follies, when a tenth 
part of the sum would be a perfect dream of happiness 
now." 

" At present five dollars would present as magnifi- 
cent an appearance as the English national debt in gold 
sovereigns." 

" Do you remember the ball at which you first pro- 
posed to me, Dick 1 " 

" Don't I ] " 

" The large, lofty rooms, glowing with burnished gold 
and soft lights ; — the carpets, with their elastic, mossy 
pile, into which one's feet sank so far and so pleasantly 
that" they became loath to leave their nests, making one 
lounge lazily instead of walking; — the conservatory, dimly 
lit with colored lamps, where tropical leaves nodded 
heavily, as if bathed in Eastern dreams, and the rich scent 
of the tuberoses wandered through the trees like the 
souls of dead flowers roaming in search of some bloomy 
paradise ; — the music streaming through the wide doors 
of the dancing-rooms, and quivering off into the distance ; 
the rustle of rich silks; the murmur of the thousand 
voices ; the light ; the perfume ; the glory of youth and 
joy spreading over everything like an atmosphere of 
human sunshine in which myriads of gay and splendid 
butterflies floated. Don't you remember, Dick V 

" I do," answered Dick, with rather a sad smile, and a 
glance round the wretched room in which they were sit- 
ting. " I remember well the glories of the life in which 
you were born, and the contrast, strange enough, with 
the life to which I have brought you. You have de- 
scribed the past ; let me describe the present. A fourfrh- 
story room in a tumble-down tenement-house in the 



410 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

filthiest part of Mulberry Street. German shoemakers 
and Irish washerwomen above and below us. No furni- 
ture save a table and a pallet-bed. A couple of old wine- 
boxes to sit on, in place of chairs. Two feet of snow on the 
ground, and no coal ; an exceedingly healthy and prom- 
ising hunger gnawing at both of us, and no money to buy 
food. All our available goods sold or pawned long ago. 
Repudiated by our relatives because we chose to marry 
each other on the ridiculous basis of mutual affection. 
All our efforts to obtain work being constantly frustrated 
by either Providence or his Satanic Majesty. Just enough 
of inconvenient pride left in us to prevent us from beg- 
ging. And I think, my dear Agnes, you have as pretty a 
case for suicide as ever came up in evidence before a Paris 
police court. Don't you feel like a pan of charcoal and 
a last embrace "? or a dose of strychnine and a despairing 
letter to our friends 1 I would offer you a pair of pistols 
and a mutual shooting arrangement, but at present my 
account at the Merchants' Bank is rather confused, and I 
do not like to draw a check for any amount until it is 
settled." 

And the young husband laughed as heartily as if the 
whole thing were a sort of comedy which he was rehears- 
ing, and which he thought he was doing exceedingly 
well. 

" Dick," said his wife, very earnestly, coming round to 
where her husband sat, and kissing him gently on the 
forehead, — "Dick, you are jesting, are you not? You 
have no such ideas, I trust ^ " 

" Jesting ? Of course I am, you dear little puss ! Of 
all the unphilosophical things a man can do, killing him- 
self is about the most unphilosophical. To kill another 
man is unphilosophical, because the chances are ten to one 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 411 

that the murder will be discovered, and the perpetrator 
hanged. Therefore, murder is only a devious way of com- 
mitting suicide, with the additional disadvantage of hav- 
ing killed a fellow-creature. But, as far as regards the 
individual, suicide is still more unphilosophical than mur- 
der, for you do not allow yourself even a chance of escape. 
We may have to die of starvation, my dear little Mentor, 
though I think it unlikely. If we have, however, the best 
thing we can do is to use all the means in our power to 
avert the unpleasant occurrence, and, if it comes, meet it 
manfully, — you may say womanfully, if you choose. But 
if we were to kill ourselves by poison in order to avoid 
dying twenty hours later of starvation, don't you think 
we should be doing rather an absurd thing 1 Particularly 
if, after we were dead, our spirits discovered that Provi- 
dence would have sent us, at the nineteenth hour, some 
guardian angel, in shape of a friend, who would have 
relieved us from all our misery. No, my dear, we won't 
have any prussic acid, or French exits from life. When 
we are too weak to stand up, we will lie down side by side ; 
and when we are too exhausted to live, we will clasp our 
hands together, bless God with our last breath, and die 
like the babes In the wood. Perhaps, after we are dead, 
that Irish washerwoman who lives in the fifth story may 
come in, like the robin in the legend, and cover us with 
leaves. She is n't very like a robin, certainly," continued 
Dick, with an air of mock meditation, "for she swears 
frightfully, and, I regret to say, smells of whiskey." 

This struck the pair as so very comic an idea that they 
simultaneously clapped their hands, and burst into peals 
of laughter. To hear those shrieks of merriment one 
would have thought this young couple the blithest and 
most careless creatures in the world. 



412 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

Their history was a simple romance. They were both 
orphans, the only difference being that Agnes Grey was 
an orphan with rich relatives, and Richard Burdoon an 
orphan with no relatives at all. Agnes had been adopted 
by her uncle, an old bachelor, who lived in Boston, — a 
selfish old man, who, once he took possession of the poor 
girl, looked on her as his personal property, and regarded 
all who would seek to deprive him of her as atrocious 
burglars, worthy of the extremest penalties of the law. 
He petted her, then, as Caligula petted his favorite horse. 
She was clothed in purple and fine linen, and had her 
gilded stable. Agnes Grey had but to express a desire, 
and every luxury that wealth could purchase dropped at 
her feet from the hands of the abominable old fairy, her 
uncle. She gave balls and matinees, and rode on Arab 
steeds. Her jewels were the newest and the most won- 
derful, her dresses unimaginably well-fitting. Having 
wealth, beauty, and an indulgent guardian, this charming- 
young girl w^anted but one thing, — a lover. It is a cu- 
rious dispensation of Providence, that, while some young 
ladies are all their lives waiting for lovers, that commodity 
never arrives, whereas others have scarce begun to feel 
the vague desire, when lo ! it rains and hails and snows 
any quantity of adoring young gentlemen. Agnes Grey, 
then, had scarcely conjured up the youngest of desires in 
her most secret heart, when the wall opened, and Mr. 
Richard Burdoon, stepping out, proclaimed himself her 
lover. I don't mean to say that the wall opened in real- 
ity, but it is a metaphorical way I have of expressing that 
he arrived in the nick of time. They met at a party. 
Mr. Burdoon, having been left a few thousand dollars just 
one year previously by the death of his only surviving 
relative, set off for Europe to spend them. He succeeded 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 413 

to admiration, and, at the time I speak of, had just re- 
turned with an immense deal of useless experience, and 
just three hundred and fifty dollars. Considering, very 
properly, that so enormous a capital justified any folly, he 
ran off with Miss Agnes Grey, without consulting her 
avuncular dragon. That jealous old relative, wounded in 
his tenderest spot, raged like a fury, disowned his un- 
happy niece, and swore a solemn oath that he would let 
her die of starvation ere he would assist her. At first, 
Agnes and her husband mentally whistled at his threats. 
Had they not three hundred and fifty dollars 1 Armed 
with so incalculable a sum, what cared they for poverty *? 
They came to New York. Ah ! how quickly did the 
scenes in the panorama succeed each other ! Metro- 
politan Hotel and fine apartments ; then boarding-house, 
and sudden departure therefrom owing to bills unpaid ; 
then cheap lodgings and visits to the pawnbroker ; then 
appealing letters to old uncle, — all of which were re- 
turned unopened. Lastly, in the miserable tenement in 
Mulberry Street, we find them without sixpence, laughing 
in the face of starvation. 

What wonders will not youth and hope work ! What 
horrible witches fly affrighted at its merry laugh, piercing 
as the clarion of the cock ! Midas should have been the 
god of youth, for he turned everything to gold ! 

After a pause in the merry talk of this young couple, 
which I took advantage of in order to relate all I knew 
of their history, Dick said suddenly, as if the conviction 
forced itself on him for the first time, " Do j^ou know, 
Agnes, that I feel absolutely hungry 1 " 

" No ! Do you, though 1 " said Agnes, with the most 
comic air of surprise. " Let us hasten up dinner." 

*' Certainly," answered Dick, falling instinctively in 



414 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

with her humor. " This cook of ours is confoundedly 
slow to-day. I shall give her warning " ; — and he made 
a feint of looking at his watch. 

" I will ring the bell, and tell John to hurry her," said 
Agnes, pulling an imaginary bell-rope. " John," she con- 
tinued, after a pause sufficient to allow the mythical John 
to mount the stairs, — " John, tell the cook to send up 
the dinner instantly. Master is very angry at the delay." 

"Yes, mum," replied a gruff voice, which Agnes, of 
course, did not affect to consider as proceeding from the 
bottom of Dick's chest. Then Agnes and her husband 
talked of indifferent matters for a moment or two, as if 
beguiling the weary time before dinner. After a proper 
period of delay, John's gruff voice announced dinner in 
the same mysterious manner as before. Then Dick made 
a great show of giving Agnes his arm, and leading her in 
state into the dining-room. This solemn procession, how- 
ever, consisted in marching round the naked chamber a 
couple of times, and bringing up before the old deal table, 
which was supposed to be loaded with all the delicacies of 
the season. Dick was agreeably surprised at the splendor 
of the repast. 

" What ! " he exclaimed, seating himself on the old 
wine-box, and glancing over the bare table, — " what a 
sumptuous feast ! Ha ! I shall enjoy it. My appetite is 
splendid. John, remove the cover from the soup. This 
is potage a la reine, my dear. Excellent, if I may judge 
by the odor. Shall I send you some % " 

" Thank you, dear," answered Agnes, receiving a sup- 
posititious soup-plate from the mythical John. " It is 
delicious ! But oh ! I. declare, I have burned my mouth, 
it is so hot ! " and Agnes went through all the spasms of a 
person suffering from a spoonful of hot soup. 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 415 

" As I live, a salmon ! " exclaimed Dick, starting into 
an attitude of surprise. " It is early in the season for 
such fish.-' 

" It was sent from Scotland, in ice," replied Agnes. 

" It is a noble animal ! " said Dick, using an aerial fish- 
knife with wonderful dexterity. " There is no sport more 
magnificent than that of salmon-fishing, particularly on 
the Scotch and Irish rivers. The noble scenery, the rapid 
river, the long, lithe rod, the whizzing line that drops the 
gorgeous fly into the deep pool, where the silver-sided ras- 
cals lurk. Then the strike; the quick whirring of the 
wheel ; the flashing leaps of the captive ; the moments of 
agony when the line slackens as he runs up stream ; the 
joy when he pulls again ; the breathless anxiety when the 
gaff is thrust under him as he swims ; the deep sigh of 
relief when he is hauled, flapping, shining, bleeding, dying, 
into the boat ; — all this is — " 

" Very eloquent, no doubt," says Agnes ; " but your 
salmon is cooling all this time, my dear husband." 

" Ah ! true," cries Dick, with a sudden start, and ap- 
plying himself with instant vigor to the discussion of a 
supposed cut of rosy flesh, with mealy flakes of white lying 
in the crevices of the meat. " What a delicious salmon ! 
We are indebted to our noble friend in Scotland." 

" You will find this turhan de volaille aux truffes very 
excellent," said Agnes, peering with the air of a connois- 
seur at the ideal dish before her. " Fran9ois's last master 
says that he is celebrated for it." 

"Hum! we will see," muttered Dick, pursing up his 
lips, and leaning back as far as he could on the wine-box, 
with a critical impo\;iance. " Good heavens, Agnes ! " he 
exclaimed, the moment after, with an air of horror, "how 
could you recommend this ? Why, the fellow has not put 



416 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

a single cock's-comb in it ! Pshaw ! Here, John, take this 
away, and tell Frangois, if he sends up a dish of that kind 
again, I will condemn him to eat it." 

"Fortunately, there are some delicious cotelettes h la 
financiere left, so that we can dispense with the volaille" 
says Agnes. 

" They are indeed excellent," answers Dick, making be- 
lieve that his mouth is full of the succulent meat of the 
cotelettes. 

So on through the whole of this strange repast. Deli- 
cacy after delicacy was announced, — some relished, others 
criticised, more dismissed indignantly. The unlucky Fran- 
9ois came in for many severe rebukes, transmitted through 
the mythical John. The game was pronounced overdone, 
and an English pheasant — a present from an illustrious 
British friend — was condemned as having been utterly 
spoiled in the dressing. The dessert, however, consisted 
of a so2ifflet, and a delicious confection, called guteaux 
Egyptienne, was solemnly pronounced to be perfect, and 
John was commissioned to convey a flattering compliment 
to Frangois, as a salve for the rebukes given during the 
previous courses. Two children, playing at " feasting," 
could not have conducted this visionary repast more ear- 
nestly. The correct wines were drunk at the correct 
moment, and all the little ceremonies of a formal dinner 
scrupulously performed. 

When all was over, — when the coffee had been served 
and drunk, when the table had been cleared away, and 
John had respectfully retired, — the eyes of the young 
couple met, and a flash of laughter sprang from the en- 
counter. Casting aside the elegant formality of the great 
lady en grand temie, Agnes ran to her husband, and, clasp- 
ing him round the neck, fairly sobbed out her laughter on 
his breast. 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 417 

" Do you know, dear," said Dick, after a little while, 
" it may entail on me the reputation of being a glutton, 
of having a wolf in my stomach, of being a vampire, or 
a thousand other unpleasant reports 1 But I nevertheless 
cannot help confessing that I feel rather more hungry 
than I did before I commenced that exquisite dinner, 
which, in spite of some failures, does Frangois infinite 
credit." 

"Would you like to dine over again, DickT' inquired 
his wife, with a grave air. "Nothing is easier, you 
know." 

"Certainly," answered Dick, dubiously, "nothing is 
easier ; but — but I 'm rather afraid that my tastes are 
becoming somewhat coarse. I am really ashamed of the 
very idea; but the fact is that at this very moment I 
have an intense longing for a piece of roast beef." 

" That is singular," said Agnes, with an air of surprise. 
"However, nature sometimes avenges itself on luxury, 
by afflicting her votaries with homely tastes. I really 
pity you, Dick. For my part, nothing less delicate than 
a reed-bird, — tender, succulent, melting, — an epitome, 
•in fact, of perfume, nourishment, and flavor, — nothing 
less than this could possibly tempt my pampered ap- 
petite." 

"I declare, Agnes," cried Dick, "I have a fancy just 
now to behave hke a poor devil who has n't got a penny. 
Yes! you may shrug your shoulders, but I really wish 
to divest myself of my splendor, and commit an act 
that contradicts the magnificence with which we are 
surrounded." 

" Explain yourself." 

"You remember that magnificent edition of Erasmus 
■which my old friend, Harry Waters, gave me when I was 

27 



418 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

going abroad. Well, I cherish that book dearly, for the 
sake of him, and the few affectionate lines he has written 
on the fly-leaf. Now, if a very poor man had that book 
he would sell it, if he had nothing else to dispose of, for 
it is clasped with silver, and is worth something; so I, 
who wish, merely for a freak, to experience the sensations 
of a poor man, have an idea of going out and selling that 
book, — merely for the sake of the illusion, you know. 
Nothing more, on my honor." 

" You always had queer fancies, dear," answered Agnes, 
as unconcernedly as if she had millions in her purse ; but 
one might see beneath all that careless gayety a sudden 
flash of hope sparkle for an instant. One could see very 
plainly that this book — which, doubtless, had till then 
been forgotten — gave her a new lease of life ; one could 
see very plainly how bravely she had been smiling in the 
face of hunger and of death. 

" Let me perform the last act of the millionnaire before 
I play the part of a beggar," said Dick, rising joyously 
from his wine-box. " Sardanapalus burned his furniture ; 
why should not I consume my chairs 1 The fire is going 
out in a most unaccountable manner; let us see how this 
fauteuil will blaze." So saying, he broke the wine-box 
into fragments, and cast it into the almost fireless grate. 

The wine-box blazed. A lofty, ruddy flame sprang up 
in the fireplace, and shed a glow over the cold, naked 
room. It seemed as if the purple Burgundy that once 
had lain between those few boards had left some portion 
of its fiery heart behind it. Who knows but that a bottle 
of that glowing wine was at that very moment sparkling 
on some splendid table, — that in some other hemisphere 
the curtains were drawn close, and the wax-lights blaz- 
ing, and a party of jolly fellows, with legs well stretched 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 419 

under the shining mahogany, were toasting beautiful 
women, while the case which held the precious juice 
they were quaffing, the shell from which the soul that 
they were inhaling had fled, was burning in a rusty 
grate, and making a bonfire to scare away the wehrwolf, 
death 1 

"The blaze is really quite cheerful," said Agnes, warm- 
ing her hands, while a faint glow of pleasure spread itself 
over her face. " Do you know that I think a wood-fire 
preferable to all others 1, " 

" It recalls the feudal times," answered Dick. '' We 
are in a vast baronial hall. The roof is solid with ribs of 
blackened oak, and antlers hang from the walls, to each 
horn of which cling a thousand memories of the chase. 
The floor is of solid stone. Old, tattered banners droop 
from the walls, and wave heavily, as if too weak with 
age to shake off the thickening dust that soils their his- 
toric splendor. No modern garments shroud our limbs. 
You, dearest, are clad in a lustrous Cramoisie velvet, 
with peaked stomacher, and stately train sweeping on 
the ground. A cavalier's hat, with its trailing feather, 
droops over my temples. My sword clangs against the 
pavement, and I assume a picturesque and haughty atti- 
tude, as I stand with my back to the wide fireplace, where 
huge logs of oak, supported by iron 'dogs,' spit and 
blaze, and send streams of sparkles up the huge chim- 
ney. I am at present meditating whether Hubert the 
seneschal shall be beheaded or not. Shall I order his 
instant execution, or — " 

"Sell the bookr' interrupted Agnes; "please your- 
self." 

" By Jove, I forgot ! " said Dick, forgetting in a mo- 
ment all his splendor and feudality. " Agnes, I '11 be 



420 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

back in five minutes. Tell John to prepare tea, and let 
us have the Sevres service"; — and he bolted down the 
crazy stairs, reaching the bottom in a few bounds. 

Agnes smiled sorrowfully as she crouched over the 
rapidly-sinking fire. The wine-box was fast losing its 
fiery spirit and degenerating into a dull mass of blacken- 
ing embers. Now that her joyous young husband was 
away she had no one with whom she could laugh at mis- 
ery. It takes two to fight that crawling, cruel monster. 
The moment the echoes of Dick's footsteps had died away 
the horror laid its cold hand upon her heart. It was in 
vain that she tried to sing, to laugh, to conjure up those 
comical visions which she and Dick had used so often 
before as an exorcism. She felt a black wall, as it were, 
closing gradually round her; the air became too thick 
to breathe ; the last bit of sky was gradually being shut 
off, — then — then a quick foot on the stairs, a merry 
cricket-like voice, a half-sung carol, and Dick burst into 
the room, performing a species of triumphal dance. A 
piece of paper fluttered in his hand. 

" Two dollars ! " he cried, executing an indescribable 
figure. " Going for two dollars ! This splendid, mag- 
nificent, delicious, succulent book, with silver facings, like 
a militia officer, going for two dollars ! Who '11 bid 1 Only 
two dollars ! Gone at two dollars ! " 

" You don't mean to say — " said Agnes, rising ea- 
gerly. 

"I do. I absolutely got two dollars for the book. 
'T was worth fifteen ; but then you know we must not 
be too nice. Is n't it splendid 1 " and he waved the two- 
dollar bill as a young ensign waves his standard in the 
battle. " I brought it home, Agnes dear, because I think 
you are the best person to spend it. These wretches of 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 421 

tradespeople would certainly cheat me if I attempted to 
buy any eatables. What shall it be 1 " 

"AVhat do you think of sausages?" said Agnes, sug- 
gesting rather timidly. " They are cheap and — " 

" Excellent ! " cried Dick, with a new pirouette, " charm- 
ing ! I adore the sausage. Sausage, with some nice white 
bread, a pat of butter, and a few apples, and we shall feast 
in dazzling splendor ! " 

*'Not forgetting a cigar for Dick," whispered Agnes, 
looking up lovingly in his face. " I know that you long 
for a cigar." 

" Angel !" cried Dick, clasping her in his arms, and 
waltzing round the room with her. " There are no sound- 
ings to the depth of woman's love ! " 

** I 'm off to the market, love," said Agnes, giving him 
a kiss ; but this chaste salute was suddenly interrupted 
by a knock at the door. Both hearts leaped. Who could 
it be *? A new misfortune 1 The bookseller, where Dick 
sold the book, seemed suspicious about his being in pos- 
session of such property. Heaven grant that nothing un- 
pleasant threatened, was the prayer of the young couple. 

"Does Mr. Burdoon live hereT' said a very deep, gruff 
voice. 

"Yes," said Dick, boldly, "come in." 

A short, thick-set man in a great-coat entered, and stood 
near the door. It was a dusky twilight in the room. 
The Assyrian bonfire of the wine-box had just expired in 
a few convulsive sparkles, and it was in vain that Dick 
tried to see the stranger's countenance. 

" Are you Mr. Burdoon "? " asked the visitor. 

"I am," answered Dick; "what is your business, sir? 
I would ask you to be seated, but, unfortunately, all my 
furniture is packed up." 



422 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 

"Never mind," answered the man, gruffly. "You sold 
a book a short time since at Mr. Marbell's bookstore, did 
you not *? " 

"I really am not aware, sir," said Dick, haughtily, 
"that this is any one's business but my own." 

"Softly, softly, my friend," answered the new-comer. 
" No need of quarrelling. How did that book come into 
your possession"? " 

"Are you a police-officer]" inquired Dick, in a men- 
acing tone. 

" Never mind," said the man, "answer my question first." 

''When I have answered it, I shall kick you down 
stairs, my friend." 

" I '11 run the risk," said the fellow, with a short laugh. 

" Well, then, it was given to me by a friend," answered 
Dick, making an ominous step toward the intruder. 

" Wait a moment, — don't kick me down stairs just yet. 
Why did you part with that book 1 " 

"Curse you, that 's none of your business," cried Dick, 
savagely. " If you value your bones you '11 leave me." 

" I don't value my bones, so I '11 stay until you have 
answered rae," said the man, very quietly. Dick could 
not help smiling at this audacity. 

" Every question I answer," said he, " I shall give j^ou 
an additional kick for. You know the terms, — ask away." 

" Why did you part with that book 1 " 

"Because I was starving. Because I saw my wife 
fainting, and dying of cold and hunger before my eyes, 
all the time with a brave smile upon her lips. Because 
I have sought for work and could not get it. Because 
there was neither food, nor fire, nor furniture in this 
wretched hole. Because starvation was flapping his 
wings like a vulture, hoping each moment to plunge 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 423 

his beak into our vitals. For these reasons I sold the 
book that dear old Harry Waters gave me, and for none 
other would I have profaned his gift. Now I have ex- 
posed my misery to you, sir, whoever you are, and you 
shall pay dearly for it. I will break every bone in your 
body," and he sprang like a tiger at the short, thick-set 
man, who stood in the gloom. He felt himself suddenly 
seized by the shoulder, and rooted to the earth, as if he 
had been in the grip of an enormous vise. 

" Dick Burdoon," said the thick-set man, and this time 
his voice was sweet and soft as a woman's, '* you are not 
going to kick me, Dick Burdoon ; for many a star-lit 
night, in the silent fields, you have lain with my arms 
around you, and your head upon my bosom, while we 
talked of the splendid things we would achieve when we 
two went out into life hand in hand." 

Dick trembled like a leaf, and said not a word. 

"You will not kick me, Dick Burdoon," went on the 
thick-set man, loosening his grasp of Dick's shoulder, and 
drawing closer as he spoke, " because one day", when the 
sun was pitiless, and the river cool, a young, weak boy, 
tempted by the clear waters, ventured into a deep part, 
and went down. And then his friend, older and stronger 
than himself, plunged in, determined to rescue that fair 
boy or perish with him. And he dived into the deep 
waters twice, and the second time he found him, clasped 
in the meshes of loathsome weeds, with the merciless 
river sweeping away his young life. The elder boy strug- 
gled with him to land, and when they reached the 
shore people could scarce tell the saver from the saved. 
But when both recovered their strength and speech, the 
younger boy swore eternal gratitude to his preserver, and 
they vowed to be friends forevermore." 



424 DUKE HUMPHEEY'S DINNER. 

" I remember ! I remember ! " cried Dick sobbingly. 

" Since that time," continued the thick-set man, " their 
paths in life have lain asunder ; but I know that in the 
hearts of both the old friendship lives still, and that, if 
one of the twain were frowned on by the world, the other 
would pour out his life in smiles to make it sunshine with 
him again. That is why I know that you will not kick 
me, Dick Burdoon." 

''Harry! Harry Waters, — my dear, dear old. boy ! " 
cried Dick through his tears, and flinging himself into the 
visitor's arms. " God bless you for coming, Harry, for I 
needed you sorely." 

" I saw you, my boy," said Harry, folding him in an 
embrace so gentle that one would imagine he was fondling 
a child, — "I saw you the moment you entered the shop. 
You know 1 was always famous for poking in old book- 
stores, and I am glad I have such tastes. I saw you sell- 
ing the old Erasmus, my boy, and knew that something 
must be wrong with you. I followed you here, and now 
we three are joined, thank God, for a long time to come." 
And the kind fellow took poor, timid Agnes's hand and 
drew her close till all three were united in one fond trinity 
of love. 

Need I tell how Harry Waters, the rich bachelor, 
carried Agnes and Dick off that evening to his house, and 
made much of tljem there ? Need I say how they lived 
with him until Dick got employment, from which he has 
gradually raised himself to be a great merchant 1 Need 
I tell about that solemn christening, whereat Dick's first- 
born was named, with much ceremony, Harry Waters 
Burdoon 1 A hint of all those happy days will, I am sure, 
be enough for the warm-hearted reader, who has long 
since, I know, wished the young couple a full meal. One 



DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 425 

thing I must relate, however, — an incident that occurred 
on the evening after the sale of the Erasmus. When the 
sobbings and the embraces were all over, Harry Waters, 
by way of saying something general, said to Dick, " By 
the way, have you dined yet 1 " 

Dick turned to his wife, who smiled. 

"0, yes, we dined sumptuously an hour ago," said 
Dick. 

" Ah ! indeed ! " said Harry, rather surprised. 

" Yes ! we dined with Duke Humphrey ! " 



426 MILLY DOVE. 



MILLY DOVE. 



It was the quaintest of imaginable rooms. It was deep 
and dark in the corners, where the very spirit of mystery 
itself seemed to hide away, while there lay from end to 
end of the crazy old jSoor a long bar of golden light, that 
had poured in through the single window, seeming like a 
luminous pathway which, if followed, would take one 
straight out through the diamonded casement, and so on 
to heaven. The walls were dim, and deeply panelled with 
some dark, melancholy wood, and in the chinks of every 
panel active spiders lived a toilsome life, passing their 
days in the construction of suspension-bridges from their 
houses to the ceiling, — which works were apparently un- 
dertaken from a purely scientific motive, as they were 
never seen to traverse them after they were finished. 
Three chairs lurked in the corners of this half-lit cham- 
ber. One of them — old-fashioned, with a high back and 
crooked arms — seemed to repose in the twilight of the 
place, like some high-shouldered old beau of the last cen- 
tury, silently reflecting, as it were, on the habits of the 
present generation. This old fellow was not, however, 
always in retreat. He was many a time during the day 
dragged forth into the centre of the stream of golden 
light that poured through the deep window, where he 
seemed to blink and shrink from the unwonted glare, 



MILLY DOVE. 427 

while a small, bright figure nestled into his comfortable 
angles, and pierced his bent and padded old arms with cruel 
pins, to which divers endless cotton threads were fastened. 
And then, as the sunlight poured splendidly through the 
diamond panes, powdering the air with golden dust and 
playing on the carvings of the ceiling, there was not a 
prettier picture in the world — not even in your grand 
foreign galleries beyond the sea — than Milly Dove, sit- 
ting in her sumptuous old chair. 

She was very, very pretty, this little Milly Dove. Her 
eyes were so dark and blue, and the light that shone in 
them seemed to be so far off behind, that one saw it 
shining, shining miles and miles away, like the lights of a 
distant city across the sea ! Then her hair was of such 
a rich brown, — golden-hued where the light struck it, — 
and her rosy, cloven mouth was so fresh and dewy, that, 
if I ivere a painter, I would not have tried to paint Milly 
Dove for the world. — I would only have dreamed of 
her. 

Milly sat the greater part of the day in that high- 
backed chair, right in the sunny stream, working at her 
embroidery or knitting. I said before — prettily enough 
too, I think — that the light, as it poured in, seemed like 
a path to heaven. If it were so, who that saw this little 
maiden seated in its radiance would not say that she was 
an angel made to tread it % 

She did not tread it, however, or even dream of any 
such proceeding as marching out through the window on 
a pavement of sunbeams, and wandering off into prob- 
lematical regions. Not that Milly Dove did not wish to 
go to heaven ; but she had so many things to do down 
below here that she never would have thonght of such a 
journey, unless it pleased God to take her. 



428 MILLY DOVE. 

She had much to do, that little thing, though you 
would not think it to look at her. Milly Dove kept a 
shop. Yes ! absolutely kept a shop. Directly opposite to 
that old-fashioned window which lit the little room, a small 
glass door stood always half open, through which one could 
catch a glimpse of a small counter and small shelves, and 
a varied assortment of the smallest merchandise it was 
possible to keep. Tiny drums for infants of a military 
turn of mind ; scanty bundles of cotton and muslin stuffs, 
large enough, perhaps, to furnish dolls' dresses ; infini- 
tesimal brooches ; ridiculously reduced thimbles ; stunted 
whips ; dwarf rakes and spades, and baby wheelbarrows, 
together with a hundred such like articles, useful or orna- 
mental, lay on the shelves, were hidden away in secret 
>r^ places under the counter, or depended in bunches from 
the low ceiling. 

It seemed exceedingly odd to be obliged to regard 
Milly Dove as the owner of all this magnificent and va- 
ried property. Her childish figure had nothing of the 
rigidity of a proprietor ; she did not look as if she had 
any pockets to keep her money in ; nor did she possess in 
the faintest degree the air of being arithmetical. No one 
would believe, to look into those clear, unworldly eyes, 
that she could buy or sell anything to the slightest ad- 
vantage, — unless, indeed, it were eggs, that commodity 
having been, as every one knows who has read story- 
books, intrusted from time immemorial to pretty little 
girls to convey to market. Now, in spite of all this, 
Milly Dove was a famous hand at a bargain. It was 
excellent to see her standing behind her small counter, 
insisting pertinaciously on the price of some article which 
she was selling ; explaining with much gravity, to the 
cunning clown who wished to purchase, its various merits 



MILLY DOVE. 429 

and positive value ; declaring that, if she gave it a cent 
cheaper, it would be a dead loss to her, — and how were 
folks to live if they did not make some profit on their 
goods ] Then all this with such a sweet and gentle firm- 
ness, such a mixture of innocence and shrewdness, that it 
must be a hard customer indeed who could find the heart 
to beat her down. 

That house, — a small, old-fashioned New England 
tenement, smelling of the Mayflower, — together with the 
shop and its stock of goods, was all that Milly Dove pos- 
sessed in this wide world. Her parents were dead, and 
this old roof, with a scanty supply of merchandise, was 
all they had to bequeath to their only child. And she 
managed her inheritance wonderfully well, let me tell 
you ! By the aid of her little shop, she made nearly two 
hundred and fifty dollars in the year; and she had a 
tenant for the upper part of the house, in the person of 
a Mr. Josiah Compton, who paid her probably as much 
more ; so that this little proprietor of sixteen, although 
somewhat forlorn, was not very poor, and was able to lay 
something by every year in a savings bank at Boston. 

Mr. Josiah Compton was Milly's only friend. He was 
a gnarled bachelor of fifty-six ; odd, kind-hearted, passion- 
ately attached to flowers and music, and loving dearly 
everything old and quaint, and which did not smell, as 
he said, of the modern varnish. He had lived in this 
house a very long time. Indeed, he had been living 
there for many a year before Milly was born, and loved 
the place for the air of quiet antiquity with which it 
was haunted. There was a curious old garden at the 
back of the house, which Mr. Josiah Compton had with 
his own hands brought to a high state of floral cul- 
ture. He had labored at it for years, and had written 



430 MILLY DOVE. 

the history of his toil in flowers. The ground glowed 
with tulips and ranunculuses ; fiery lychnises and rich- 
blossomed roses flaunted in the deep borders ; trumpet 
honeysuckles thrust the golden lips of their horns through 
a tented drapery of glossy leaves, as if about to sound a 
challenge to the blue convolvalus ; dahlias, drunk with 
dew, nodded their heavy heads ; the campanulas, with 
their bells of intense blue, grew in close ranks around the 
edges of the beds, like a tiny army guarding the borders 
of this kingdom of flowers. Color and perfume floated 
like a spell through the entire place. The brilliant plants, 
trained into no formality, sprang up to heaven with a 
splendid freedom. The walks were paved with the blos- 
soms that they shed, and the heavens were fragrant with 
the odors that they breathed 

On this gcxrden Mr. Compton's window opened ; and he 
would sit in the summer time at his piano, with the case- 
ment flung wide, the rich perfume of the flowers floating 
in upon the languid air, and the rich music he awakened 
surging over and under and through all, and mingling it- 
self inextricably with the warm breath of the blossoming 
roses. 

Mr. Compton's playing — and he played beautifully — 
was a source of intense pleasure to Hilly, as she sat in her 
old-fashioned parlor underneath, and watched the shop 
through the half-open door. Poor child ! of music as an 
art she was profoundly ignorant. Dominants, subdomi- 
nants, fifths and sevenths, intervals, contrapunta, and 
such like, were mysteries unknown to her by name. She 
had never heard any other performer than Mr. Compton ; 
but those wild voluntaries that he played pleased her 
mightily, — those sad, harmonious wailings, that poured 
all day long through the open window, until toward the 



MILLY DOVE. 431 

close of day, when the sun was setting, they would burst 
into some triumphal melody that would sweep her soul 
up along the path of golden light striking heavenward, 
until it reached a goal so dazzlingly beautiful that she 
grew blinded with its glories. 

She was very happy sitting there in the sunshine, knit- 
ting and listening to the music. Occasionally some vil- 
lager, in need of a ball of twine or a pair of scissors, would 
enter the shop, and then Milly, jumping nimbly from her 
perch, would glide behind the small counter, looking in- 
tensely business-like. Or mayhap it would be some great 
boy who had just come into possession of wealth unlimited 
in the shape of a quarter-dollar, and who tremblingly en- 
tered Milly's little shop, determined, yet scarce knowing 
how, to spend it. And to all such Milly Dove was beau- 
tifully kind and patient ; showing them, with perfect good- 
humor, all the expensive toys to which they pointed, 
although perfectly aware all the time of the extent of their 
means, which were generally displayed in their hands with 
the most confiding simplicity. Her little sales over, she 
would again retreat to her parlor, to knit, or, it may be, to 
take a good long peep at her panorama. 

Milly Dove had a panorama. Not a panorama ever so 
many miles long, professing to exhibit the entire world in 
the most satisfactory manner possible in an hour and 
twenty-five minutes. No ; Milly's panorama was, I must 
confess, limited in extent, but it possessed endless variety 
for her, and I do believe that she was never tired of look- 
ing at it. 

The panorama was by no means complicated. Its ex- 
hibition was not encumbered with huge pulleys, and im- 
possibly heavy weights and windlasses and cog-wheels to 
keep it moving. But, in spite of this insignificance when 



432 MILLY DOVE. 

compared with a " seven-mile mirror," Milly's panorama 
was for her a splendid pastime. It was an endless round 
of enjoyment, a garden of perpetual delights. 

This work of art consisted of a large wooden box sup- 
ported on four long, diverging, attenuated legs. It con- 
tained a few colored prints hung on hinges from the top, 
one hiding the other, each capable of being lifted into a 
horizontal position, so as to disclose the next picture in 
succession, by a series of little pulleys of a primitive char- 
acter fixed on the exterior of the box. These pictures, 
when viewed through the double convex lens which was 
fixed in the front of the box at a proper focal distance, 
were magnified and glorified in so wonderful and splendid 
a manner, that to Milly they presented the aspect of illim- 
itable paintings, unsurpassable in beauty of design or bril- 
liancy of color. How this treasure of art had come into 
her family the little maiden was altogether ignorant. Her 
mother was possessed of it long before Milly made her 
appearance in the world, and when dying had left no tra- 
dition of its history. The probability was, that some 
wandering exhibitor may have left it with Mrs. Dove in 
pledge for unpaid board, and had never redeemed it, poor 
fellow ! 

But there it was, and when Milly was left alone in the 
world it became hers, — and proud enough of it she was, 
I can assure you. It afforded the dear child wondrous 
delight to look through the peep-hole, and draw up the 
j)aintings one after the other. She knew nothing of his- 
tory, • — I don't like her a bit the less for that, — and the 
subjects of these splendid illustrations would have re- 
mained mysteries to her forever, had it not been for the 
kindness of Mr. Compton, who would pull the strings as 
she peeped, and, assuming the air and manner of a veri- 



MILLY DOVE. 433 

table showman, explain each cartoon as it appeared. That 
gentleman, however, was not always quite certain himself 
as to what scenes were really depicted in this splendid 
gallery ; but then he never hesitated on account of any 
want of knowledge, but assigned to each picture the most 
probable explanation and title he could think of. I have 
seen many grand battle-pieces in great galleries across the 
sea that might just as well have been called the battle of 
Pavia as the battle of Agincourt, and have looked at many 
a heathen goddess painted by some great old artist, who 
might quite as well have been put down as Moll Flan- 
ders in the catalogue, and no one would have questioned 
the propriety of the title. So I do not blame Mr. Comp- 
ton in the least for his impromptu style of nomencla- 
ture. It satisfied Milly perfectly, and he had no other 
object. 

These explanations did not, however, tax Mr. Compton's 
inventive faculties very largely. There were the Pyra- 
mids of Ghizeh, which he could not very well mistake, and 
which aftbrded him an opportunity of delivering a very 
learned discourse on the manners and customs of the 
ancient Egyptians, all carefully extracted from an ency- 
clopsedia; and there was the battle of Waterloo, which 
the Duke of Wellington's nose and Napoleon's coat iden- 
tified sufficiently ; but, again, there arose a fiery painting 
with flames, and soldiers, and much killing, and falling 
horses, with agonized mothers of large families in the 
fourth stories, which, having no better name for it, Mr. 
Compton christened the Battle of Prague ; and when he 
afterward performed the piece of music of that name on 
the piano, and came to the part called by the composer 
in an explanatory note "the cries of the wounded," there 
remained no shadow of doubt on Milly's mind that the 

28 



434 MILLY DOVE. 

picture was indeed a faithful representation of that terri- 
ble combat, and that Mr. Compton was the best-informed 
historian in the world. 

Of late, somehow, Milly, poor child, was not quite so 
interested in her panorama, or so attentive to her shop as 
was her wont. She had not peeped through that magical 
hole for many days; her knitting was, I regret to say, 
of an unusually spasmodic character; when she sat in 
the sunshine it seemed almost too gay for her ; and her 
pretty little face seemed to have a cloud of sadness cov- 
ering it. But she welcomed the music with more pleasure 
than ever ; and the more melancholy it was, the better she 
liked it ; for it seemed then to speak to her in a language 
which she understood, yet could not interpret, — harmo- 
niously talking of strange things which she thought she 
felt, and still was unable to comprehend. So she sat all 
day and listened to Mr. Compton's wild improvisations, 
as they floated over the flowers, till perfume and harmony 
seemed to be mingling, and she grew so abstracted in her 
habits that she had to be called thrice by Mrs. Barberry, 
who wanted to buy a flour-dredge, before she thought of 
answering. 

It was singular, but no less true, that just at this time 
I had the privilege of peeping into that pure little maiden's 
mind, and observing, in secret, all its innocent little oper- 
ations. It was a rare privilege, I know, but I hope I love 
honor, beauty, and virtue too much not to look upon the 
prerogative as holy. You will hear, therefore, from me 
only such things as are necessary to the conduct of the 
story I am endeavoring to relate. 

I saw, at my very first peep, what it was that induced 
Milly to forget her panorama, and pay such little heed to 
old Mrs. Barberry. The cause of all this distraction was 



MILLY DOVE. 435 

a certain person, of whom you shall know more before I 
have done with you. 

About a week previous to the time I am speaking of 
a stranger had made his appearance in the little town of 
Blossomdale, in which Milly lived ; and just about the 
same time Milly, who had heard of the stranger's arrival 
— as one hears everything in a village — but had not seen 
him, observed a man of singular aspect passing her shop 
frequently. Coupling the two facts together she came to 
the conclusion that this person and the strange arrival 
were one ; which at least proves that Milly Dove was 
capable of inductive reasoning. 

He was a remarkable man, this stranger. Not very 
tall, but rather powerfully built; he always walked rap- 
idly, with his frame stooped forward from the hips, as 
if his mind were in advance of his body. His face was 
somewhat narrow, and delicately featured. A thin mus- 
tache curled around a small mouth, and his hair was pro- 
fuse, though not long. But it was in his eyes that his 
individuality chiefly resided, — eyes that seemed to gaze 
at nothing, and yet see everything. They did not look, 
they absorbed, those great dark eyes, and shed from out 
their own darkness a shadow over the whole face. They 
were eyes truly delightful to look at, — as it is delight- 
ful to look down into a calm sea, — and hard to be for- 
gotten. 

Milly did not easily forget them, I promise you. They 
haunted her as she sat alone in the little half-lit parlor, 
and seemed to glow with a strange light in the dim cor- 
ners where the spiders dwelt. She looked at them, and 
they looked at her all the livelong day, and this was why 
she forgot her panorama. 

Now Milly Dove told Mr. Compton everything. He 



436 MILLY DOVE. 

was her only friend. He stood to her in the place of a 
parent, and loved her as a daughter. Confidence existed 
between them as a matter of course, and she talked to 
him as the stream flows. So she soon told him about this 
stranger : how she had seen him ; how his face haunted 
her continually; how she kept thinking about him all 
day long; how she watched for him at the hour when 
it was usual for him to pass her door, and felt a sort of 
dim, indistinct pleasure when he passed. All this she 
told her old friend simply, truly, naturally, without even 
the remotest idea of the nature or origin of her feelings ; 
for Milly was at that happy age when people are not 
learned in the mysteries of themselves, and do not possess 
the mournful knowledge which enables them to anato- 
mize their own hearts. Mr. Compton at first looked rather 
sad at hearing this naive confession ; but after a moment 
he laughed and kissed her fair forehead, saying that she 
would soon forget this wonderful stranger. Then he sat 
down at his piano and played so wild and wonderful a 
strain, fraught with such depths of pure and unconscious 
passion, that Milly lay statue-like near him, and dreamed 
so perfectly that she dreamed no more. 



II. 

It was a pleasant June day. Through the open win- 
dow in Milly's little room a mingled stream of sunshine 
and the breath of flowers rolled in, filling the chamber 
with light and perfume. The spiders dozed in the crev- 
ices of the panelled walls, while their aerial webs shone 
like delicate threads of silver. The high-shouldered chairs 
sidled ofi" into the corners, as if they were ashamed of 



MILLY DOVE. 437 

their age, and the great panorama, which stood on one 
side of the door, glared with its huge, eye-like lens at 
the green window, like a species of four-legged Cyclops. 
Milly, as usual, was sitting in the sun. Nestled into 
that great, high-backed chair, which was a world too 
large for her, she worked absently at some intricate femi- 
nine fabric, — a fabric it was that I believe would have 
driven me crazy if I had been set down to learn its mys- 
teries. There were- dozens of strings pinned to various 
portions of the unhappy old chair. More strings trailed 
on the floor, whose courses, if followed, would be found 
to terminate in numberless little balls, that kept continu- 
ally rolling ofif into the comers and disturbing the spiders 
that lived on the first floors of the panels. Then each 
string had to be unpinned every second minute, and jug- 
gled with after some wondrous fashion, until, having 
been thrust, by a species of magic known only to Milly, 
through an interminable perspective of loops, it was sol- 
emnly repinned to the chair, and then the whole process 
began again. 

Whether it was owing to the complication of this terri- 
ble web, or to the preoccupation of her own thoughts, no 
Penelope ever made so many blunders as Milly Dove, on 
that June morning. Every now and then the web would 
come to a sudden stand-still; a minute investigation of 
certain curious knots would result in the discovery of 
some heart-rending error. Then the vagrant balls would 
have to be hunted up in the corners, and the pin would 
have to come out, and with a pettish toss of the head and 
a little pouting of the under lip, the child would tediously 
unravel all the false work and begin again. 

Sometimes she would let it drop altogether, and gaze 
absently through the open window, as if she were watch- 



438 MILLY DOVE. 

ing the humming-birds that hmig before the golden-lipped 
tubes of the trumpet-honeysuckle ; or she would turn 
toward the desolate panorama, that seemed to gaze re- 
proachfully at her with its single eye, and ponder over 
the propriety of taking another peep at that bloody Battle 
of Prague, or the extraordinary representation of the Is- 
raelites gathering the manna in the desert, — which said 
manna seemed to have been made into very respectable 
and well-baked quartern loaves before it fell. 

Milly's reveries, whatever they were, were interrupted 
by the entrance of Master Dick Boby, the eldest son of 
Judge Boby, who was the richest and greatest man in the 
village. Master Boby had acquired — probably by in- 
heritance — the sum of half a dollar, and immediately 
upon coming into possession of his property had set off 
for Milly's shop, uncertain as to whether he would pur- 
chase her entire stock or simply confine himself to the 
acquisition of a stick of molasses candy. Milly, with her 
pleasant smile, was behind the counter in an instant, 
awaiting the commands of the young squire. 

" What 's them guns apiece. Miss Milly 1 " inquired 
Master Boby, pointing to a couple of flimsy fowling-pieces 
that stood in the corner. 

''Six dollars apiece, sir." 

" I guess you 'd take half-price for them if a body was to 
buy both 1 " said the young millionnaire, half inquiringly, 
as if he had only to put his hand in his pocket and pull 
out the money. 

" Well," said Milly, " I did n't buy them ; they were 
here when father died, and as they 've been so long on 
my hands, I 'd be glad to sell them cheap. You can 
have them both for seven dollars and fifty cents, if you 
want them, Master Dick." 



MILLY DOVE. 439 

"0, I don't want them; only father might, if his own 
gun was to burst. What 's the price of them skates, 
Miss MiUyT' 

" A dollar fifty, sir. They are capital skates, and came 
all the way from York. But what do you want of skates 
this weather, Master Dick 1 " 

"0, I didn't know but I might lose my own skates 
next winter, you know, so I thought I 'd ask. Are you 
going to the circus show this evening, Miss Milly 1 for if 
you 'd like to go, I can get tickets from father, and I '11 
take you." And Master Dick looked admiringly at the 
pretty little maiden. 

" Thank you kindly, sir ; but I don't think Mr. Comp- 
ton would like me to go. He says the circus is a bad 
place." 

" He don't know nothing," answered Master Dick, sur- 
lily ; " but if you won't go, I know one who will. Give 
me an ounce of molasses candy, and half an ounce of 
peppermint, Miss Milly." 

Milly had just opened the drawer containing the 
confections demanded by Master Dick, and was about 
measuring out the required quantity of molasses and 
peppermint, when she saw something through the window 
that made her suddenly stop. A gentleman was march- 
ing slowly down the street. He appeared to be lost in 
reverie, for his head was thrown back, and his eyes were 
fixed on vacancy, while he moved on apparently uncon- 
scious of the existence of everybody, himself included. 
He was a pleasant gentleman, too, and seemed to be oc- 
cupied with pleasing thoughts, for a sort of half-bom 
smile played around his thin lips, seeming always on the 
point of becoming a laugh but never fulfilling its prom- 
ise. This gentleman had just arrived opposite to Milly's 



440 MILLY DOVE. 

door, when his reverie was suddenly and most unex- 
pectedly interrupted by a big stone. This big stone was 
a stone of infamous habits. It lurked under a specious 
coating of clay, seemingly soft and elastic in its nature, 
but all the while turning up one sharp and treacherous 
edge, that to the foot of the tight-booted and unwary 
pedestrian caused unutterable tortures. It was a Tar- 
tuffe among stones, — hypocritical, velvety, inducing con- 
fidence, — but woe to the toe that lit upon its venomous 
edge ! 

Well, of course this thoughtful gentleman marched 
straight upon this assassin of a stone. Tschut ! A terri- 
ble "thud" of toes against the treacherous edge, a wild 
flinging out of arms in a vain attempt at equilibrium, a 
convulsive ejaculation which I hope nobody heard, and 
our pedestrian measui^ed his length in the dust. He rose 
in a moment, looked reproachfully at the stone as if to 
upbraid it for its misconduct, then, recalled probably by 
some unusual sensation, he looked down at his legs. 
Alas ! across his left knee there was a great gaping split 
in his trousers, through which a vvide vista of linen was 
visible. The poor gentleman gazud ruefully at this scene 
of destruction; looked around, and then again at his 
knee ; then tried to walk a step or two ; stopped, looked 
at his knee once more, and seemed to meditate pro- 
foundly on his position. 

While rapt in this painful reverie, the victim of that 
abominable stone was startled by a very sweet little voice 
at his elbow. This voice, belonging to Milly Dove, said, 
" Please, sir, if you will step into the shop, I will mend it 
for you." 

The gentleman turned round, and gave a rapid glance 
at the sunny, girlish face that looked up into his with 



MILLY DOVE. 441 

such a frank, easy expression, asjf it was the most natural 
thing in the world that he should fall, and that she should 
come out and offer to mend his trousers. 

" Thank you, child ! " said he, simply. " I am very 
much obliged to you. What is your name 1 " 

" Milly Dove, sir." 

" And this is your father's shop, I suppose 1 " And the 
stranger glanced round as he entered, with a half-smile 
at the varied assortment of goods that it contained. It 
was quite deserted ; for Master Dick Boby, left alone 
with the candy, had, I regret to say, helped himself and 
departed. 

" No, sir ; it 's mine I " answered Milly, poking in her 
pocket for her needle-box. 

"Yours ! why, you are young to be at the head of an 
establishment." 

" I was sixteen my last birthday, sir. Will you come 
into the inside room, if you please, so that you may put 
your foot upon a chair ] " 

The stranger did as he was bidden, and Milly's nimble 
fingers were soon busily drawing together the jagged 
edges of that gaping rent in his injured trousers. He 
looked down upon her with a wondering gaze. 

"I suppose some of your relatives live with you here?" 
he said, after a pause, during which he had been studying 
her features intently. 

" No, sir ; I am alone." 
• '^Alone!" 

"No; that is — not exactly alone. Mr. Compton 
lodges np-stairs." 

" Mr. Compton 1 " said the stranger, a sort of dark 
shadow falling across his face like a veil. " Who is Mr. 
Compton 1 A young man ] " 



442 MILLY DOVE. 

"A friend of my mother's, sir. He lives here all the 
year round, and is a dear, pleasant gentleman. He's 
quite young, too ; not more than fifty-six." 

*' Ah ! " and the Knight of the Rueful Breeches seemed 
to breathe more freely. " That is young indeed ! How 
long have you been keeping shop 1 " 

" Two years, sir. My mother died about that time, 
and the neighbors were all very good to me when I began. 
I think it will do now, sir ! " 

" Thanks ! thanks !" replied the stranger, scarce giving 
a glance at the neat seam across his knee. " You are an 
excellent little workwoman." And as he spoke he seated 
himself deliberately in Milly's high-backed chair, much to 
that young lady's surprise. " You have a pretty room 
here," he continued, looking round him approvingly, — 
" a very pretty room ! The sunlight gushing in through 
that window, and parting, as it were to make good its en- 
trance, the honeysuckles that wave before it, has a charm- 
ing effect. Is it you who take care of the flowers out 
there 1 " 

*' 0, there 's not much to do now," said Milly, mod- 
estly. " Mr. Compton made the garden, and now I help 
him a little. They grow there so nicely, the flowers do ! 
And in the spring I freshen up the beds a little, and weed 
the walks, and clip off the dead branches, and I think 
the sun and the rain do the rest." 

" Hum ! that 's prettily said ! " 

Poor Milly grew scarlet at the tone of easy assurance 
in which this approbation was uttered. This gentleman 
seemed to have an air of the world about him that some- 
how alarmed her, she knew not why, — his walk, his way 
of speech, his manner, were all so different from those of 
the loutish villagers to whom she had been accustomed. 



MILLY DOVE. 443 

He was even unlike Mr. Compton, who to Milly, until 
then, had been the highest type of human perfection. 

" I 'd like to live in a room like this ! " muttered the 
stranger half aloud, gazing round him with evident pleas- 
ure. " It has a sweet, thoughtful air ; and that garden 
outside would fill me with poetry. I 'd like very much 
indeed to live here ! " 

" Then why don't you come 1 " was on the tip of Milly 's 
tongue ; but she suddenly recollected herself in time, and 
so was silent. 

" Do you ever read. Miss Milly Dove 1 " was the next 
question, as the visitor turned abruptly to the young 
maiden. 

" No — yes — that is — sometimes," was the alarmed 
reply. 

"Which means that you do not read at all?" said the 
stranger, gravely. 

Milly looked as if she was immediately about to tuck 
the end of her little apron into her eyes, and weep herself 
away. 

" Well," continued he, " that can be remedied ; but 
Mr. Compton should have given you books." 

" Sir," said Milly stoutly, quick to espouse her friend's 
cause, though unable to defend her own, — " Sir, Mr. 
Compton knows a great deal more, in fact, than any one 
I ever saw, and everything that he does is right." 

The stranger laughed. "You are a chivalrous but 
illogical little maiden," said he, in a tone of insufferable 
patronage. 

" I may not read much," said Milly, flushing up, " but 
I have a panorama." 

" 0, you have a panorama 1 A panorama of what 1 
Let us see this wonder that supplies the place of books." 



444 MILLY DOVE. 

" Shall I show it to you, sir 1 " asked Milly timidly. 

"Certainly; but before profiting by your kindness, I 
must introduce myself formally. I am Mr. Alexander 
Winthrop, a poor gentleman, with enough for his appe- 
tites, and too little for his desires. I am fond of travel- 
ling, books, and thinking. I am only twenty-five years 
old, although I look thirty. I live close to New York, 
and am at present at Blossomdale on business. Now, you 
know all that I intend you to know about me ; so we will 
go on with our panorama." 

This ofF-hand introduction was delivered with such grav- 
ity that poor Milly did not know what to make of it. 
At first, she thought he was laughing at her, but on 
looking at his eyes she could not detect the slightest 
twinkle of merriment ; so she nodded her little head to 
Mr. Alexander Winthrop, as if to say, " All right, I know 
you," and then proceeded to introduce him to the panorama. 

" This," said Milly in a solemn voice, as she made him 
put his eye to the peep-hole, and proceeded to pull the 
strings that lifted the pictures, " this is the invasion of 
Mexico by the Spaniards. The man in the big boat is 
Cortes, a very cruel man indeed ; and the man on the 
shore is Montezuma, the king of Mexico, who may be 
known by his red skin." 

" Hem ! " coughed Mr. Alexander. " How do you know 
that this is the invasion of Mexico 1 " 

" Mr. Compton told me, sir." 

" 0, Mr. Compton told you ! Then it 's all right, of 
course. But," he continued, muttering to himself, "if 
Mr, Compton is right, Cortes dressed exceedingly like 
William Penn; and Montezuma would make a capital 
North American Indian." 

" This picture," continued Milly, pulling another string. 



MILLY DOVE. 445 

" represents the great Pyramids of Egypt, built by various 
kings to serve for their tombs. The ancient Egyptians 
were far advanced in civilization, while the rest of the 
globe was plunged in the obscurity of ignorance. Their 
chief god was Osiris, and the priesthood was so powerful 
that the government, in truth, was an ecclesiastical one. 
The ancient Egyptians were in the habit of placing a 
skeleton at the head of the table when they feasted, for 
the purpose of reminding them of their mortality, and it 
is believed that from them first sprang the art of embalm- 
ing bodies. They were a highly commercial people, and 
found large markets for the products of their industry 
and art, in the ancient cities of Greece and Rome." 

"Why, child, where did you learn this]" exclaimed 
Mr. Alexander, gazing with astonishment * on the little 
maiden, who ran off this farrago of learning with the giib- 
ness of a lecturer on ancient history, looking all the while 
exceedingly proud of her knowledge. 

" Mr. Compton told me," she answered proudly. 

Mr. Alexander could no longer contain himself, but 
burst into a shout of laughter that made Milly's ears 
tingle. Her round cheeks flushed, and the tears rose to 
her eyes. Poor little thing ! She thought this Mr. Alex- 
ander Winthrop exceedingly rude, and yet she could not 
feel angry with him. 

" Well, what 's the next picture 1 " he asked, as soon as 
he had recovered from his mirth, and without making the 
slightest apology for his improper behavior. 

" It 's the Battle of the Nile," answered Milly, rather 
sullenly, for she did not exactly like -the merciless laugh 
of her new friend. 

" I was there all the while," chimed in Mr. Alexander. 

" You could n't. It happened ever so long ago," an- 



446 MILLY DOVE. 

swered Milly quickly, delighted at finding Mr. Alexander 
out in a fib. 

That gentleman was on the point of going off into 
another fit of merriment, when a wild prelude on a piano 
wavered harmoniously through the window. After wan- 
dering up and down the kej^s for a short time, striking 
out fragments of melodies, and fluttering uncertainly from 
one to the other, as a butterfly roams from bud to bud, not 
knowing which to choose, the performer at length struck 
on a theme that seemed to satisfy him, and then poured 
out his entire soul. That it was a voluntary, one could 
discern in an instant, from the occasional irregularity of 
the rhythm, and lack of proper sequence between the 
parts ; but it was so wild, so original, so mournful, so full 
of broken utterances of passion, that one might have im- 
agined it the wail of a lost angel, outside the gates of that 
paradise which he saw but could not enjoy. 

" That is a great performer," said Mr. Alexander, rising. 
" I must go and see him." 

" It 's Mr. Compton," cried Milly, eagerly ; " he does 
not like to be disturbed. You must not go now." 

" I don't care," said Mr. Alexander, very coolly. 
" Where 's the stairs 1 0, here ! — all right ! " And 
before she could detain him, he had bounded up the 
stairs, and was gone. 

" I make no apology for coming in here in this way," 
said Mr. Alexander, as he pushed open Mr. Compton's 
door, " because, if you don't want people to rush in on 
you unannounced, you should not play so well, nor im- 
provise such original themes." 

" You are an artist, then 1 " said Mr. Compton, rising 
in some surprise at this sudden intrusion. "All such 
have a right to enter here." 



MILLY DOVE. 447 

" Enough of an artist to comprehend you," said the 
young man, bluntly. "You are an artist, Mr. Compton, 
and have never done anything but toy with art. More 

shame for you ! " 

"Who is my lecturer T' said Mr. Compton, rather 

sternly. 

" My name is Alexander Winthrop." 

" What ! he who — " 

" Hush ! " cried the young man, lifting his finger ; for 
at that moment Milly appeared, with flushed cheeks, on 
the threshold of the door. " I am only Alexander Wm- 
throp I tore my trousers by a fall opposite to this 
house. This little fairy," pointing to Milly, " mended 
them for me. I heard you playing; I ran up stairs. 
Now you know all about me." 

« Then you must be the stranger of whom Milly has so 
often spoken to me, as passing the door every day," said 
Mr Compton, with a bland ignorance of the mcautious- 
ness of his remark, and totally heedless of MiUy's ago- 
nized telegraphings to make him stop. 

" then, the little fairy knew me before ! " exclaimed 
Mr. Alexander, eagerly. " So we were old acquaintances, 
Miss Milly r' ^^ ^ 

Milly said nothing, but appeared to have suddenly 
remembered that her shop had been left unprotected, and 
disappeared as if by magic. 

«I want to have a talk with you, Mr. Compton, said 
Mr. Alexander, looking after her. ^^ 

Mr. Compton sighed. " Let us go into the garden, 
he said ; and they went out together. 



448 MILLY DOVE. 

III. 

Two months after this, Milly Dove sat in her little 
room, reading. Those wondrous fabrics on which she used 
to labor with such patience were gone. There was dust 
on the panorama ; its single eye was dim and melancholy. 
No more balls disturbed the repose of the fat old spiders 
in the panels; the very shop itself seemed to have an 
uncared-for look. 

The reason of all this was that Milly Dove had become 
a student, — a hard, close, unwearying student, — and the 
books that she read were given to her by Mr. Alexander. 
One author in particular pleased her mightily. A man 
named IvanThorle had lately astonished the world with an 
alternate succession of works of philosophy and fiction. In 
both paths did he seem to be equally at home. His nov- 
els were tender, impassioned, truthful, and always breath- 
ing the sublimest scorn for everything mean and unholy. 
His philosophy was still more wonderful, because it was so 
clear. The progress of man was always his theme. The 
gradual amalgamation of races ; the universal equalization 
of climate from the cultivation of the entire globe ; the 
disappearance of poverty from the earth before the influ- 
ence of machinery, which labored for all ; the consequent 
improvement of the physical condition of our race ; the 
abolishment of crime ; — in short, the apogee of the world. 
On all this he expatiated with a profundity of thought 
and simplicity of expression that made him at once the 
deepest and clearest of writers. Ivan Thorle, then, opened 
a new world for Milly. For the first time she compre- 
hended the true beauty of life, and experienced those de- 
licious sensations which one experiences when beginning 
to observe, — an epoch, let me tell you, that comes much 



.) v^ 



MILLY DOVE. 449 

later than one imagines. Thus a trinity of genius and 
goodness reigned supreme in Milly Dove's little heart, — 
Mr. Compton, Mr. Alexander, and Ivan Thorle, — and 
although her reason placed Mr. Compton first, as being 
the oldest friend, and Ivan Thorle next, as being the 
greatest genius, yet I doubt much if that little maiden's 
heart did not put Mr. Alexander Winthrop, her affianced 
lover, high above all. 

There was one thing that grieved this dear child, and 
it was so strange a grief for her to have had at that period 
that it seeifts a mystery to me how she ever could have 
had it. It was that Mr. Alexander was not a great writer. 
She loved him very dearly, and she knew that Mr. Comp- 
ton loved him, and they talked very learnedly together 
for hours at a time. He was very clever, this Mr. Alex- 
ander Winthrop ; but oh ! if he would only write books like 
Ivan Thorle ! If he would create those dear stories, — 
so pure, so good, and so true ! If he would make those 
splendid books that made every one love his fellow-men 
better when he had read them, and which were so purely 
written that a child might understand them ! If he would 
only do this, she told him many times, as she clung to his 
breast, she would be as happy as the humming-birds that 
lived outside, forever in the sunshine ! And Mr. Alex- 
ander would stroke her brown hair, and kiss her white 
forehead, and, smiling mysteriously, say, ''Some time, per- 
haps — " But he did not write books, and Milly Dove 
was sad. 

Her sadness was now, however, for the moment lost in 
the perusal of Ivan Thorle's last book, ''The Ladder of 
Stars," — a strange mixture of romance and philosophy ; 
and Milly pored over it in her high-backed chair, while 
the humming-birds outside looked in at her with their 

29 



450 MILLY DOVE. 

sharp, cunning eyes, and said to themselves, as they saw 
her rosy lips, "Bless us! where there are flowers there 
must be loads of honey. Let us go in and get it ! '* But 
now and then these rosy flowers had a strange way of 
opening with a laughing sound, and showing rows of 
white seed inside, in a manner unlike any flower ever 
before seen ; so that the humming-birds thought they 
might be dangerous flowers, and did not go in. Milly 
was reading one of the most beautiful passages in the 
"Ladder of Stars," when she heard a step behind her. 
She turned, and beheld one of the most beautiful ladies 
she had ever seen, standing in the doorway. A tall, 
proud-looking lady she was, with bright eyes and fierce 
lip, and the smallest hands in the world. And such 
dress ! So rich and elegant and flowing ! Millj^ thought 
she was a fairy. Being naturally polite, however, even to 
fairies, the little maiden rose and advanced timidly to this 
sultana. The lady did not keep her long in suspense. 

"Your name is Milly DoveT' she said, in a command- 
ing voice. 

"Yes, ma'am," said Milly, half frightened at the tone 
of the question. 

" You are going to marry a man calling himself Alex- 
ander Winthrop. Is it not so ^ " 

" Yes, ma'am." Milly's limbs began to tremble at this 
point. 

" You must not marry him." 

" Why, ma'am 1 " Milly's strength began to come back 
a little. 

" Because he would make you unhappy." 

" How do you know, ma'am 1 " Milly Dove ! Milly 
Dove ! where did you pick up the Socratic mode of rea- 
soning 1 



MILLY DOVE. 451 

"Because I know it," said the sultana, stamping her 
foot. " You cannot marry him. He loves me. I know 
he does ! " she continued passionately. 

" He loves me better ! " said Milly, quietly. " I know 
it, for he told me so." 

"You! love you better! Listen, child. You do not 
know this man. He is proud, wealthy, learned, a genius, 
and courted by all the world. His sphere in life rolls 
through another orbit than yours. His genius, his tastes, 
his friendships, will all separate him from you. He thinks 
he loves you now ; well, in three months he will be dis- 
enchanted. He will neglect you, — ill-treat you, perhaps, 
— laugh at your ill-breeding, sport with your ignorance, 
and break your heart. Be warned in time. Here ! I am 
rich. You shall have money, as much money as you 
wish, if you fly this place and promise never to see Alex- 
ander Winthrop again. I will make you wealthy, hap- 
py, everything you wish, only leave me my love ! leave 
me my love ! " She held out a purse to Milly as she 
spoke, and her splendid form literally shook with pas- 
sion. 

Poor Milly was thunderstruck ; she knew not what to 
do. 0, how she wished for either Alexander or Mr. 
Compton ! 

"Ma'am," said she at last, "I don't want money. I 
never knew that Mr. Alexander was rich ; but it makes 
no matter to me whether he is or not. I know he loves 
me ; for he said so, and he never tells a lie. Therefore I 
cannot do as you wish me. I am sorry, ma'am, that you 
should love Mr. Alexander too." 

"But you must, I tell you, — you must, girl! You 
shall not wed him ! He is mine ! Do you not know — " 

" She does not know. Miss Helen De Rham," said Mr. 



452 MILLY DOVE. 

Alexander himself, stepping, at this juncture, out of the 
shop, and putting his arm around Milly's waist. 

" 0, you are here, sir ! " said Miss De Rham, with a 
scornful curl of her upper lip. " Enjoying love in a cot- 
tage, which, no doubt, you taste merely as a literary ex- 
perience to be made serviceable in your next book. It is 
a pretty idyl." 

" Madam," said Alexander, "let me hear no unworthy 
sneers against a love so pure that you could not under- 
stand it. Milly, as this lady has thought fit to intrude 
herself on my privacy and yours, it is fit that you should 
learn the history of our association." 

" Tell it, sir, by all means," said Miss De Rham, seat- 
ing herself in a chair; "you are accustomed to weave 
romances." 

"I tell the truth, madam, always; and if I did not 
this pure mind here is too true a touchstone not to detect 
the falsehood. Milly, that handsome lady there was once 
my friend. I believe I loved her, for she was beautiful 
and gifted. We were much together, and I understand 
that she expressed admiration for my talents. I thought 
her honest, and I loved her for her honesty ; for she was 
one of those who could talk with that frank bluntness 
that so well simulates sincerity. Well, she was ambitious ; 
she wanted to be a goddess, when she was only a woman ; 
she wished to write, when God had only given her the 
power to appreciate. She came to me one day with a 
poem, — a beautiful poem, which she said she had writ- 
ten. I got it published for her ; it was admired every- 
where. On the strength of it she rose to the reputation 
of a woman of genius. Well, Milly, it was all a lie ! — 
an acted, a spoken, a perpetuated lie ! — the poem was 
not hers. It was written for her by a protege of hers, who 



MILLY DOVE. 453 

betrayed her trust, and the deception was discovered. I 
left Miss De Rham, Milly Dove, to the shame which, if" 
she had a heart, ought to have eaten it out." 

" And 3'ou could not discover the difference between an 
innocent piece of vanity and a crime ! Ivan Thorle, 
in spite of all your knowledge you know not the world ! " 

"I do not wish to know it better. Miss De Rham. 
Leave me and my bride in ignorance and peace. Go, 
madam, back to your town luxury and refined atmosphere, 
where pretty names are given to bad deeds. I wish to 
remain unmolested with that pure love which will ever 
be a mystery to you. Go ! " 

"What name did she call youV cried Milly Dove, 
breathlessly, as the proud lady swept scornfully out 
through the little shop. 

"Milly, you may now know what I have long con- 
cealed. I am Ivan Thorle ! " 

"You? you] 0, I am so glad — so glad — so glad! 
Dear Alexander, I have now nothing to wish for." 

" But I have, dear Milly ! " 

Those who have* read Alexander Winthrop's latest and 
best novel, " The Village Bride," will see there how hap- 
pily he and Milly and Mr. Compton lived together ; and 
they will recognize in the lecturer on Woman's Rights the 
portrait of Miss De Rham. 



454 THE DRAGON FANG. 



THE DRAGON" FANG POSSESSED BY 
THE CONJUEER PIOU-LU. 



CHAPTER OF THE MIRACULOUS DRAGON FANG. 

" Come, men and women, and little people of Tching- 
tou, come and listen. The small and ignoble person who 
annoys you by his presence is the miserable conjurer 
known as Piou-Lu. Everything that can possibly be 
desired he can give you ; — charms to heal dissensions in 
your noble and illustrious families; — spells by which 
beautiful little people without style may become learned 
Bachelors, and reign high in the palaces of literary com- 
position; — Supernatural red pills, with which you can 
cure your elegant and renowned diseases; — wonderful 
incantations, by which the assassins of any members of 
your shining and virtuous families can be discovered and 
made to yield compensation, or be brought under the just 
eye of the Brother of the Sun. What is it that you 
want 1 This mean little conjurer, who now addresses you, 
can supply all your charming and refreshing desires ; for 
>he is known everywhere as Piou-Lu, the possessor of the 
ever-renowned and miraculous Dragon Fang ! " 

There was a little, dry laugh, and a murmur among the 
crowd of idlers that surrounded the stage erected by Piou- 
Lu in front of the Hotel of the Thirty-two Virtues. 
Fifth-class Mandarins looked at fourth-class Mandarins 
and smiled, as much as to say, " We who are educated 



THE DRAGON FANG. 455 

men know what to think of this fellow." But the fourth- 
class Mandarins looked haughtily at the fifth-class, as if 
they had no business to smile at their superiors. The 
crowd, however, composed as it was principally of small 
traders, barbers, porcelain-tinkers, and country people, 
gazed with open mouths upon the conjurer, who, clad in 
a radiant garment of many colors, strutted proudly up 
and down upon his temporary stage. 

"What is a Dragon Fang, ingenious and well-educated 
conjurer r' at last inquired Wei-changrtze, a solemn-look- 
ing Mandarin of the third class, who was adorned with a 
sapphire button, and a one-eyed peacock's feather. " What 
is a Dragon Fang 1 " 

" Is it possible," asked Piou-Lu, " that the wise and 
illustrious son of virtue, the Mandarin Wei-chang-tze, 
does not know what a Dragon Fang is 1 " and the conjurer 
pricked up his ears at the Mandarin, as a hare at a bark- 
ing dog. 

" Of course, of course," said the Mandarin Wei-chang- 
tze, looking rather ashamed of his having betrayed such 
ignorance, "one does not pass his examinations for noth- 
ing. I merely wished that you should explain to those 
ignorant people here what a Dragon Fang is; that was 
why I asked." 

" I thought that the Soul of Wisdom must have known," 
said Piou-Lu, triumphantly, looking as if he believed 
firmly in the knowledge of Wei-chang-tze. " The noble 
commands of Wei-chang-tze shall be obeyed. You all 
know," said he, looking round upon the people, " that 
there are three great and powerful Dragons inhabiting 
the universe. Lung, or the Dragon of the Sky ; Li, or 
the Dragon of the Sea; and Kiau, or the Dragon of 
the Marshes. All these Dragons are wise, strong, and 



456 THE DRAGON FANG. 

terrible. They are wondrously formed, and can take any 
shape that pleases them. Well, good people, a great 
many moons ago, in the season of spiked grain, I was 
following the profession of a barber in the mean and 
unmentionable town of Siho, when one morning, as I was 
sitting in my shop waiting for customers, I heard a great 
noise of tam-tams, and a princely palanquin stopped 
before my door. I hastened, of course to observe the 
honorable Rites toward this new-comer, but before I could 
reach the street a Mandarin, splendidly attired, descended 
from the palanquin. The ball on his cap was of a stone 
and color that I had never seen before, and three feathers 
of some unknown bird hung down behind his head-dress. 
He held his hand to his jaw, and walked into my house 
with a lordly step. I was greatly confused, for I knew 
not what rank he was of, and felt puzzled how to address 
him. He put an end to my embarrassment. 

" ' I am in the house of Piou-Lu, the barber,' he said, 
in a haughty voice that sounded like the roll of a copper 
drum amidst the hills. 

" ' That disgraceful and ill-conditioned person stands 
before you,' I replied, bowing as low as I could. 

*" It is well,' said he, seating himself in my operating- 
chair, while two of his attendants fanned him. ' Piou- 
Lu, I have the toothache ! ' 

" ' Does your lordship,' said I, * wish that I should 
remove your noble and illustrious pain % ' 

" ' You must draw my tooth/ said he. * Woe to you if 
you draw the wrong one ! ' 

" ' It is too much honor,' I replied ; ' but I will make 
my abominable and ill-conducted instruments entice your 
lordship's beautiful tooth out of your high-born jaw with 
much rapidity.' 



THE DRAGON FANG. 457 

**So I got my big pincers, and my opinm-bottle, and 
opened the -strange Mandarin's mouth. Ah ! it was then 
that my low-born and despicable heart descended into my 
bowels. I should have dropped my pincers from sheer 
fright if they had not caught by their hooked ends in my 
wide sleeve. The Mandarin's mouth was all on fire inside. 
As he breathed, the flames rolled up and down his throat, 
like the flames that gather on the Yellow Grass Plains in 
the season of Much Heat. His palate glowed like red- 
hot copper, and his tongue was like a brass stewpan that 
had been on the salt-fire for thirty days. But it was his 
teeth that affi'ighted me most. They were a serpent's 
teeth. They were long, and curved inward, and seemed 
to be made of transparent crystal, in the centre of which 
small tongues of orange-colored fire leaped up and down 
out of some cavity in the gums. 

" ' Well, dilatory barber,' said the Mandarin, in a hor- 
rible tone, while I stood pale and trembling before him, 
* why don't you draw my tooth 1 Hasten, or I will have 
you sliced lengthwise and fried in the sun.' 

" ' 0, my lord ! ' said I, terrified at this threat, ' I fear 
that my vicious and unendurable pincers are not suffi- 
ciently strong.' 

" * Slave ! ' answered he in a voice of thunder, ' if you do 
not fulfil my desires, you will not see another moon rise.' 

^' I saw that I should be killed any way, so I might as 
well make the attempt. I made a dart with my pincers 
at the first tooth that came, closed them firmly on the 
crystal fang, and began to pull with all my strength. 
The Mandarin bellowed like an ox of Thibet. The flames 
rolled from his throat in such volumes that I thought 
they would singe my eyebrows. His two attendants and 
his four palanquin-bearers put their arms round my waist 



458 THE DRAGON FANG. 

to help me to pull, and there we tugged for three or four 
minutes, until at last I heard a report as loud as nine 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine fire-crackers. The 
attendants, the palanquin-bearers, and myself all fell flat 
on the floor, and the crystal fang glittered between the 
jaws of the pincers. 

" The Mandarin was smiling pleasantly as I got up 
from the floor. 'Piou-Lu,' said he, 'you had a narrow 
escape. You have removed my toothache, but had you 
failed, you would have perished miserably ; for I am the 
Dragon Lung, who rules the sky and the heavenly bod- 
ies, and I am as powerful as I am wise. Take as a 
reward the Dragon Fang which you drew from my jaw. 
You will find it a magical charm with which you can 
work miracles. Honor your parents, observe the Rites, 
and live in peace.' 

"So saying, he breathed a whole cloud of fire and 
smoke from his throat, that filled my poor and despicable 
mansion. The light dazzled and the smoke suffocated me, 
and when I recovered my sight and breath the Dragon 
Lung, the attendants, the palanquin, and the four bearers 
had all departed, how and whither I knew not. Thus 
was it, elegant and refined people of Tching-tou, that this 
small and evil-minded person who stands before you be- 
came possessed of the wonderful Dragon Fang, with which 
he can work miracles." 

This story, delivered as it was with much graceful and 
dramatic gesticulation, and a volubility that seemed al- 
most supernatural, had its effect upon the crowd, and a 
poor little tailor, named Hang-pou, who was known to be 
always in debt, was heard to say that he wished he had 
the Dragon-Fang, wherewith to work miracles with his 
creditors. But the Mandarins, blue, crystal, • and gilt, 



THE DRAGON FANG. 459 

«<' 
smiled contemptuously, and said to themselves, " We 

who are learned men know how to esteem these things." 

The Mandarin Wei-chang-tze, however, seemed to be of 
an inquiring disposition, and evinced a desire to continue 
his investigations. 

''Supremely visited conjurer," said he to Piou-Lu, 
" your story is indeed wonderful. To have been visited 
by the Dragon Lung must have been truly refreshing and 
enchanting. Though not in the least doubting your mar- 
vellous relation, I am sure this virtuous assemblage would 
like to see some proof of the miraculous power of your 
Dragon Fang." 

The crowd gave an immediate assent to this sentiment 
by pressing closer to the platform on which Piou-Lu 
strutted, and exclaiming with one voice, *' The lofty 
Mandarin says wisely. We would like to behold." 

Piou-Lu did not seem in. the slightest degree disconcert- 
ed. His narrow black eyes glistened like the dark edges 
of the seeds of the water-melon, and he looked haughtily 
around him. 

" Is there any one of you who would like to have a 
miracle performed, and of what nature 1 " he asked, with 
a triumphant w^ave of his arms. 

" I would like to see my debts paid," murmured the 
little tailor, Hang-pou. 

" Hang-pou," replied the conjurer, " this unworthy 
personage is not going to pay your debts. Go home and 
sit in your shop, and drink no more rice-wine, and your 
debts will be paid ; for labor is the Dragon Fang that 
works miracles for idle tailors ! " 

There was a laugh through the crowd at this sally, 
because Hang-pou was well known to be fond of intoxicat- 
ing drinks, and spent more of his time in the street than 
on his shop-board. 



460 THE DRAGON FANG. 

" Would either of you like to be changed into a camel 1 " 
continued Piou-Lu. " Say the word, and there shall not 
be a finer beast in all Thibet ! " 

No one, however, seemed to be particularly anxious to 
experience this transformation. Perhaps it was because 
it was warm weather, and camels bear heavy burdens. 

" I will change the whole honorable assemblage into 
turkey-buzzards, if it only agrees," continued the conjurer ; 
*' or I will make the Lake Tung come up into the town 
in the shape of a water-melon, and then burst and over- 
flow everything." 

" But we should all be drowned ! " exclaimed Hang-pou, 
who was cowardly as well as intemperate. 

" That 's true," said Piou-Lu, " but then you need not 
fear your creditors," — and he gave such a dart of his long 
arm at the poor little tailor, that the wretched man 
thought he was going to claw him up and change him 
into some frightful animal. 

"Well, since this illustrious assembly will not have 
turkey-buzzards or camels, this weak-minded, ill-shapen 
personage must work a miracle on himself," said Piou-Lu, 
descending from his platform into the street, and bringing 
with him a little three-legged stool made of bamboo rods. 

The crowd retreated as he approached, and even the 
solemn Wei-chang-tze seemed rather afraid of this mirac- 
ulous conjurer. Piou-Lu placed the bamboo stool firmly 
on the ground, and then mounted upon it. 

" Elegant and symmetrical bamboo stool," he said, lift- 
ing his arms, and exhibiting something in his hand that 
seemed like a piece of polished jade-stone, — " elegant and 
symmetrical bamboo stool, the justly despised conjurer, 
named Piou-Lu, entreats that you will immediately grow 
tall, in the name of the Dragon Lung ! " 



THE DRAGON FANG. 461 

Truly the stool began to grow, in the presence of the 
astonished crowd. The three legs of bamboo lengthened 
and lengthened with great rapidity, bearing Piou-Lu high 
up into the air. As he ascended he bowed gracefully to 
the open-mouthed assembly. 

" It is delightful ! " he cried ; " the air up here is so 
fresh ! I smell the tea-winds from Fuh-kien. I can see 
the spot where the heavens and the earth cease to run 
parallel. I hear the gongs of Pekin, and listen to the 
lowing of the herds in Thibet. Who would not have an 
elegant bamboo stool that knew how to grow 1 " 

By this time Piou-Lu had risen to an enormous height. 
The legs of the slender tripod on which he was mounted 
seemed like silkworm's threads, so thin were they com- 
pared with their length. The crowd began to tremble 
for Piou-Lu. 

"Will he never stop?" said a Mandarin with a gilt 
ball, named Lin. 

" 0, yes ! " shouted Piou-Lu from the dizzy height of his 
bamboo stool. " 0, yes ! this ugly little person will imme- 
diately stop. Elegant stool, the poor conjurer entreats 
you to stop growing ; but he also begs that you will afford 
some satisfaction to this beautifying assemblage down 
below, who have honored you with their inspection." 

The bamboo stool, with the utmost complaisance, ceased 
to lengthen out its attenuated limbs, but on the moment 
experienced another change as terrifying to the crowd. 
The three legs began to approach each other rapidly, and 
before the eye could very well follow their motions had 
blended mysteriously and inexplicably into one, the stool 
still retaining a miraculous equilibrium. Immediately 
this single stem began to thicken most marvellously, and 
instead of the dark shining skin of a bamboo stick, it 



462 THE DRAGON FANG. 

seemed gradually to be incased iu overlapping rings of a 
rough bark. Meanwhile a faint rustling noise continued 
overhead, and when the crowd, attracted by the sound, 
looked up, instead of the flat disk of cane-work on which 
Piou-Lu had so wondrously ascended, they beheld a 
cabbage-shaped mass of green, which shot forth every 
moment long, pointed satiny leaves of the tenderest green, 
and the most graceful shape imaginable. But where was 
Piou-Lu 1 Some fancied that in the yellow crown that 
topped the cabbage-shaped bud of this strange tree they 
could see the tip of his cap, and distinguish his black, 
roguish eyes, but that may have been all fancy ; and they 
were quickly diverted from their search for the conjurer 
by a shower of red, pulpy fruits, that began to fall with 
great rapidity from the miraculous tree. Of course there 
was a scramble, in which the Mandarins themselves did 
not disdain to join; and the crimson fruits — the like of 
which no one in Tching-tou had ever seen before — proved 
delightfully sweet and palatable to the taste. 

" That 's right ! that 's right ! perfectly bred and very 
polite people," cried a shrill voice while they were all 
scrambling for the crimson fruits ; '* pick fruit while it is 
fresh, and tea while it is tender. For the sun wilts, and 
the chills toughen, and the bluest plum blooms only for a 
day." 

Everybody looked up, and lo ! there was Piou-Lu, as 
large as life, strutting upon the stage, waving a large green 
fan in his hand. While the crowd was yet considering 
this wonderful reappearance of the conjurer, there was 
heard a very great outcry at the end of the street, and a 
tall thin man in a coarse blue gown came running up at 
full speed. 

"Where are my plums, sons of thieves'?" he cried, 



THE DRAGON FANG. 463 

almost breathless with haste. " Alas ! alas ! I am com- 
pletely ruined. My wife will perish miserably for want 
of food, and my sons will inherit nothing but empty 
baskets at my death ! Where are my plums ] " 

"Who is it that dares to address the virtuous and 
xv-ell-disposed people of Tching-tou after this fashion 1" 
demanded the Mandarin Lin, in a haughty voice, as he 
confronted the new-comer. 

The poor man, seeing the gilt ball, became immediately 
very humble, and bowed several times to the Mandarin. 

" 0, my lord ! " said he, " I am an incapable and unde- 
serving plum-seller, named Liho. I was just now sitting 
at my stall in a neighboring street selling five cash worth 
of plums to a customer, when suddenly all the plums 
rose out of my baskets as if they had the wings of hawks, 
and flew through the air over the tops of the houses in 
this direction. Thinking myself the sport of demons, I 
ran after them, hoping to catch them, and— Ah ! there 
are mv plums," he cried, suddenly interrupting himself, 
and making a dart at some of the crimson fruits that the 
tailor Hang held in his hand, intending to carry them 
home to his wife. 

"These your plums!" screamed Hang, defendmg his 
treasure vigorously. "Mole that you are, did you ever 
see scarlet plums 1 " 

"This man is stricken by Heaven," said Piou-Lu, 
gravely. " He is a fool who hides his plums and then 
thinks that they fly away. Let some one shake his 

gown." 

A porcelain-cobbler who stood near the fruiterer imme- 
diately seized the long blue robe and gave it a lusty pull, 
when, to the wonder of everybody, thousands of the 
most beautiful plums fell out, as from a tree shaken by 



464 THE DRAGON FANG. 

the winds of autumn. At this moment a great gust of 
■wind arose in the street, and a pillar of dust mounted up 
to the very top of the strange tree, that still stood waving 
its long satiny leaves languidly above the house-tops. 
For an instant every one was blinded, and when the dust 
had subsided so as to permit the people to use their eyes 
again the wonderful tree had completely vanished, and 
all that could be seen was a little bamboo stool flying 
along the road, where it was blown by the storm. The 
poor fruiterer, Liho, stood aghast, looking at the plums, 
in which he stood knee-deep. 

The Mandarin, addressing him, said sternly, "Let us 
hear no more such folly from Liho, otherwise he will get 
twenty strokes of the stick." 

" Gather your plums, Liho," said Piou-Lu kindly, " and 
think this one of your fortunate days ; for he who runs 
after his losses with open mouth does not always overtake 
them." 

And as the conjurer descended from his platform it did 
not escape the sharp eyes of the little tailor Hang that 
Piou-Lu exchanged a mysterious signal with the Mandarin 
Wei-chansr-tze. 



THE CHAPTER OP THE SHADOW OP THE DUCK. 

It was close on nightfall when Piou-Lu stopped before 
AVei-chang-tze's house. The lanterns were already lit, 
and the porter dozed in a bamboo chair so soundly, that 
Piou-Lu entered the porch and passed the screen without 
awaking him. The inner room was dimly lighted by 
some horn lanterns elegantly painted with hunting scenes; 
but despite the obscurity the conjurer could discover 



THE DRAGON FANG. 465 

Wei-chang-tze seated at the farther end of the apartment 
on an inclined couch covered with blue and yellow satin. 
Along the corridor that led to the women's apartments 
the shadows lay thick ; but Piou-Lu fancied he could hear 
the pattering of little feet upon the matted floor, and see 
the twinkle of curious eyes illuminating the solemn dark- 
ness. Yet, after all, he may have been mistaken, for the 
corridor opened on a garden wealthy in the rarest flowers, 
and he may have conceived the silver dripping of the 
fountain to be the pattering of dainty feet, and have mis- 
taken the moonlight shining on the moist leaves of the 
lotus for the sparkle of women's e^^es. 

"Has Piou-Lu arrived in my dwelling T' asked Wei-, 
chang-tze from the dim corner in which he lay. 

" That ignoble and wrath-deserving personage bows his 
head before you," answered Piou-Lu, advancing and salut- 
ing the Mandarin in accordance with the laws of the 
Book of Rites. 

'* I hope that you performed your journey hither in 
great safety and peace of mind," said Wei-chang-tze, 
gracefully motioning to the conjurer to seat himself on a 
small blue sofa that stood at a little distance. 

" When so mean an individual as Piou-Lu is honored 
by the request of the noble Wei-chang-tze, good fortune 
must attend him. How could it be otherwise 1" replied 
Piou-Lu, seating himself not on the small blue sofa, but 
on the satin one which was partly occupied by the Man- 
darin himself. 

" Piou-Lu did not send in his name, as the Rites direct," 
said Wei-chang-tze, looking rather disgusted by this im- 
pertinent freedom on the part of the conjurer. 

''The elegant porter that adorns the noble porch of 
Wei-chang-tze was fast asleep," answered Piou-Lu, "and 

30 



4:6Q THE DRAGON FANG. 

Piou-Lu knew that the great Mandarin expected him with 
impatience." 

"Yes," said Wei-chang-tze ; *' I am oppressed by a 
thousand demons ; devils sleep in my hair, and my ears 
are overflowing with evil spirit ; I cannot rest at night, 
and feel no pleasure in the day. Therefore was it that I 
wished to' see you, in hopes that you would, by amusing 
the demon that inhabits my stomach, induce him to de- 
part." 

" I will endeavor to delight the respectable demon who 
lodges in your stomach with my unworthy conjurations," 
replied Piou-Lu. " But first I must go into the garden 
to gather flowers." 

" Go," said Wei-chang-tze. " The moon shines, and 
you will see there very many rare and beautiful plants 
that are beloved by my daughter Wu." 

"The moonlight itself cannot shine brighter on the 
lilies than the glances of your lordship's daughter," said 
the conjurer, bowing and proceeding to the garden. 

Ah ! what a garden it was that Piou-Lu now entered ! 
The walls that surrounded it were lofty, and built of a 
rosy stone brought from the mountains of Mantchouria. 
This wall, on whose inner face flowery designs and tri- 
umphal processions were sculptured at regular intervals; 
sustained the long and richly laden shoots of the white 
magnolia, which spread its large snowy chalices in myr- 
iads over the surface. Tamarisks and palms sprang up 
in various parts of the grounds, like dark columns support- 
ing the silvery sky ; while the tender and mournful willow 
drooped its delicate limbs over numberless fish-ponds, 
whose waters seemed to repose peacefully in the bosom of 
the emerald turf The air was distracted with innumer- 
able perfumes, each more fragrant than the other. The 



THE DKAGON FANG. 467 

blue convolvulus, the crimson ipomea, the prodigal azaleas, 
the spotted tiger-lilies, the timid and half-hidden jasmine, 
all poured forth, during the day and night, streams of 
perfume from the inexhaustible fountains of their chal- 
ices. The heavy odors of the tube-rose floated languidly 
through the leaves, as a richly-plumaged bird would float 
through summer air, borne down by his own splendor. 
The blue lotus slept on the smooth waves of the fish- 
ponds in sublime repose. There seemed an odor of en- 
chantment over the entire place. The flowers whispered 
their secrets in the perfumed silence ; the inmost heart 
of every blossom was unclosed at that mystic hour ; all 
the magic and mystery of plants floated abroad, and the 
garden seemed filled with the breath of a thousand spells. 
But amidst the lilies and lotuses, amidst the scented roses 
and the drooping convolvuli, there moved a flower fairer 
than all. 

" I am here," whispered a low voice, and a dusky figure 
came gliding towardPiqu-Lu, as he stood by the fountain. 

" Ah ! " said the conjurer, in a tender tone, far differ- 
ent from the shrill one in which he addressed the crowd 
opposite the Hotel of the Thirty-two Virtues. " The gar- 
den is now complete. Wu, the Eose of Completed Beauty, 
has blossomed on the night." 

" Let Piou-Lu shelter her under his mantle from the 
cold winds of evening, and bear her company for a little 
while, for she has grown up under a lonely wall," said 
Wu, laying her little hand gently on the conjurer's arm, 
and nestling up to his side as a bird nestles into the fallen 
leaves warmed by the sun. 

" She can lie there but a little while," answered Piou- 
Lu, folding the Mandarin's daughter in a passionate em- 
brace, " for Wei-chang-tze awaits the coming of Piou-Lu 



468 THE DRAGON FANG. 

impatiently, in order to have a conjuration with a devil 
that inhabits his stomach." 

" Alas ! ' said Wii, sadly, " why do you not seek some 
other and more distinguished employment than that of a 
conjurer? Why do you not seek distinction in the Palace 
of Literary Composition, and obtain a style 1 Then we 
need not meet in secret, and you might without fear 
demand my hand from my father." 

Piou-Lu smiled, almost scornfully. He seemed to gain 
an inch in stature, and looked around him with an air 
of command. 

"The marble from which the statue is to be carved 
must lie in the quarry until the workman finds it," he 
answered, "and the hour of my destiny has not yet 
arrived." 

" Well, we must wait, I suppose," said AVu, with a sigh. 
"Meantime, Piou-Lu, I love you." 

" The hour will come sooner than you think," said 
Piou-Lu, returning her caress ; " and now go, for the 
Mandarin waits." 

Wu glided away through the gloom to her own apart- 
ment, while the conjurer passed rapidly through the garden 
and gathered the blossoms of certain flowers as he went. 
He seemed to linger with a strange delight over the buds 
bathed in the moonlight and the dew; their perfume 
ascended into his nostrils like incense, and he breathed it 
with a voluptuous pleasure. 

" Now let the demon tremble in the noble stomach of 
Wei-chang-tze," said Piou-Lu, as he re-entered the hall of 
reception laden with flowers. " This ill-favored personage 
will make such conjurations as shall delight the soul of 
the elegant and well-born Mandarin, and cause his illus- 
trious persecutor to fly terrified." 



THE DRAGON FANG. 469 

Piou-Lu then stripped off the petals from many of the 
flowers, and gathered them in a heap on the floor. The 
mass of leaves was indeed variegated. The red of the 
quamoclit, the blue of the convolvulus, the tender pink of 
the camellia, the waxen white of the magnolia, were all 
mingled together like the thousand hues in the Scarfs of 
Felicity. Having built this confused mass of petals in 
the shape of a pyramid, Piou-Lu unwound a scarf from 
his waist and flung it over the heap. He then drew the 
piece of jade-stone from his pocket, and said, — 

"This personage of outrageous presence desires that 
what will be may be shown to the lofty Mandarin, Wei- 
chang-tze." 

As he pronounced these words, he twitched the scarf 
away with a rapid jerk, and lo ! the flower-leaves were 
gone, and in their place stood a beautiful mandarin duck, 
in whose gorgeous plumage one might trace the brilliant 
hues of the flowers. Piou-Lu now approached the duck, 
caught it up with one hand, while with the other he drew 
a sharp knife from his girdle and severed the bird's head 
from its body at a single stroke. To the great astonish- 
ment of Wei-chang-tze, the body and dismembered head 
of the bird vanished the moment the knife had passed 
through the neck ; but at the same instant a duck, re- 
sembling it in every respect, escaped from the conjurer's 
hands and flew across the room. When I say that this 
duck resembled the other in every respect, I mean only 
in shape, size, and colors. For the rest, it was no bodily 
duck. It was impalpable and transparent, and even when 
it flew it made no noise with its wings. 

" This is indeed wonderful ! " said Wei-chang-tze. " Let 
the marvellous conjurer explain." 

" The duck formed out of flowers was a duck pure in 



470 THE DRAGON FANG. 

body and in spirit, most lofty Mandarin," said Piou-Lu, 
" and when it died under the knife, I ordered its soul to 
pass into its shadow, which can never be killed. Hence 
the shadow of the duck has all the colors as well as the 
intelligence of the real duck that gave it birth." 

" And to what end has the very wise Piou-Lu created 
this beautiful duck-shadow 1 " asked the Mandarin. 

"The cultivated Wei-chang-tze shall immediately be- 
hold," answered the conjurer, drawing from his wide 
sleeve a piece of rock-salt and flinging it to the farther 
end of the room. He had hardly done this when a ter- 
rific sound, between a bark and a howl, issued from the 
dim corner into which he had cast the rock-salt, and im- 
mediately a large gray wolf issued w^onderfully from out 
of the twilight, and rushed wdth savage fangs upon the 
shadow of the beautiful duck. 

** Why, it is a wolf from the forests of Mantchouria ! " 
exclaimed Wei-chang-tze, rather alarmed at this frightful 
apparition. '* This is no shadow, but a living and blood- 
thirsty beast." 

" Let ray lord observe and have no fear," said Piou-Lu, 
tranquilly. 

The wolf seemed rather confounded when, on making a 
snap at the beautiful duck, his sharp fangs met no resist- 
ance, while the bird flew with wonderful venom straight 
at his fiery eyes. He growled, and snapped, and tore 
with his claws at the agile shadow that fluttered around 
and over him, but all to no purpose. As well might the 
hound leap at the reflection of the deer in the pool where 
he drinks. The shadow of the beautiful duck seemed all 
the while to possess some strange, deadly influence over 
the savage wolf. His growls grew fainter and fainter, 
and his red and flaming eyes seemed to drop blood. His 



THE DRAGON FANG. 471 

limbs quivered all over, and the rough hairs of his coat 
stood on end with terror and pain, — the shadow of the 
beautiful duck never ceasing all the time to fly straight 
at his eyes. 

" The wolf is dying ! " exclaimed Wei-chang-tze. 

*' He will die, — die like a dog," said Piou-Lu, in a tone 
of savage triumph. 

And presently, as he predicted, the wolf gave two or 
three faint howls, turned himself round in a circle as if 
making a bed to sleep on, and then laid down and died. 
The shadow of the beautiful duck seemed now to be 
radiant with glory. It shook its bright wings, that were 
lovely and transparent as a rainbow, and, mounting on 
the dead body of the wolf, sat in majesty upon his grim 
and shaggy throne. 

''And what means this strange exhibition, learned and 
wise conjurer?" asked Wei-chang-tze, with a sorely trou- 
bled air. 

"I will tell you," said Piou-Lu, suddenly dropping his 
respectful and ceremonious language, and lifting his hand 
-with an air of supreme power. "The mandarin duck, 
elegant, faithful, and courageous, is an emblem of the 
dynasty of Ming, that true Chinese race that ruled so 
splendidly in this land before the invaders usurped the 
throne. The cowardly and savage wolf is a symbol of the 
Mantchou Tartar robbers who slew our liberties, shaved 
our heads, and enchained our people. The time has now 
arrived when the duck has recovered its splendor and its 
courage, and is going to kill the wolf ; for the wolf can- 
not bite it, as it works like a shadow in the twilight and 
mystery of secret association. This you know, Wei- 
chang-tze, as well as I." 

" I have indeed heard of a rebel Chinese named Tien-te, 



472 THE DRAGON FANG. 

who has raised a flame in our peaceful land, and who, 
proclaiming himself a lineal descendant of the dynasty of 
Ming, seeks to dethrone our wise and heavenly sovereign, 
Hien-foung." 

" Lie not to me, Wei-chang-tze, for I know your inmost 
thoughts. Chinese as you are, I know that you hate the 
Tartar in your heart, but you are afraid to say so for fear 
of losing your head." 

The Mandarin was so stupefied at this audacious address 
that he could not reply, while the conjurer continued : 
" I come to make you an offer. Join the forces of the 
heaven-descended Emperor Tien-te. Join with him in 
expelling this tyrannical Tartar race from the Central 
Kingdom, and driving them back again to their cold hills 
and barren deserts. Fly with me to the Imperial camp, 
and bring with you your daughter Wu, the Golden Heart 
of the Lily, and I promise you the command of one third 
of the Imperial forces, and the Presidency of the College 
of Ceremonies." 

" And who are you, who dare to ask of Wei-chang-tze 
to bestow on you his nobly-born daughter?" said Wei- 
chang-tze, starting in a rage from his couch. 

" I ! " replied Piou-Lu, shaking his conjurer's gown 
from his shoulders and displaying a splendid garment of 
yellow satin, on the breast of which was emblazoned the 
Imperial Dragon, — "I am your Emperor, Tien-t^ ]" 

" Ha ! " screamed a shrill voice behind him at this mo- 
ment, "here he is. The elegant and noble rebel for 
whose head our worthy Emperor has offered a reward of 
ten thousand silver tales. Here he is. Catch I beautiful 
and noble Mandarins, catch him ! and I will pay my 
creditors with the head-money." 

Piou-Lu turned, and beheld the little tailor Hang-pou, 



THE DRAGON FANG. 473 

at whose back were a whole file of soldiers and a number 
of Mandarins. Wei-chang-tze shuddered, for in this com- 
promise of his character he knew that his death was 
written if he fell into the Imperial hands. 



THE CHAPTER OF '"ALL IS OVER. 

"Stately and temperate tailor," said Piou-Lu, calmly, 
" why do you wish to arrest me 1 " 

" Ho ! because I will get a reward, and I want to pay 
my debts," said Hang-pou, grinning spitefully. 

'* A reward for me, the miserable and marrowless con- 
jurer, Piou-Lu ! 0, elegant cutter of summer gowns, your 
well-educated brains are not at home ! " 

" 0, we know you well enough, mighty conjm-er. 
You are none other than the contumacious rebel, Tien-te, 
who dares to claim the throne held by the wise and mer- 
ciful Hien Foung ; and we will bear you to the court of 
Pekin in chains, so that you may wither in the light 
of his terrible eyes." 

"You think you will get a reward of ten thousand 
silver tales for my head 1 " said Piou-Lu. 

" Certainly," replied the little tailor, rubbing his hands 
with glee, — " certainly. His Unmatched and Isolated 
Majesty has promised it, and the Brother of the Sun 
never lies." 

" Listen, inventive closer of symmetrical seams ! Lis- 
ten, and I will tell you what will become of your ten thou- 
sand silver tales. There is a long avenue leading to the 
Imperial treasury, and at every second step is an open 
hand. When the ten thousand tales are poured out, the 
first hand gi-asps a half, the second hand an eighth of the 



474 THE DRAGON FANG. 

remaining half, the third hand grasps a fourth of the rest, 
and when the money-bags get down a Uttle lower, all the 
hands grasp together ; so that when the bags reach 
the little tailor Hang-pou, who stands stamping his feet 
very far down indeed, they are entirely empty ; for Tartar 
robbers surround the throne, and a Tartar usurper sits 
upon it, and the great Chinese nation toils in its rice-fields 
to gild their palaces, and fill their seraglios, and for all 
they give get neither justice nor mercy. But I, Tien-te, 
the Heavenly Emperor of this Central Land, will ordain 
it otherwise, and hurl the false Dragon from his throne ; 
for it is written in the Book of Prognostics, a copy of 
which was brought to me on the wings of a yellow ser- 
pent, that the dynasty of Han shall rule once more, and 
the Tartar wolves perish miserably out of the Land of 
Flowers." 

" This is treason against the Light of the Universe, our 
most gracious Emperor," said the Mandarin Lin. " You 
shall have seventy times seven pounds of cold iron put 
upon your neck for these blasphemies, and I will prom- 
ise you that many bamboo splinters shall be driven up 
under your rebellious nails." 

*' Let our ears be no longer filled with these atrocious 
utterances ! " cried Hang-pou. " brave and splendid 
Mandarins, order your terrifying tigers to arrest this de- 
praved rebel, in order that we may hasten with him to 
Pekin." 

"Before you throw the chains of sorrow around my 
neck, tailor of celestial inspirations," said Piou-Lu, 
with calm mockery, — " before the terrible weight of your 
just hand falls upon me, I pray you, if you would oblige 
me, to look at that duck." So saying, Piou-Lu pointed 
to where the shadow of the duck was sitting on the body 
of the wolf. 



THE DRAGON FANG. 475 

" 0, what a beautiful duck ! " cried Hang-pou, with 
glistening eyes, and clapping his hands. " Let us try 
and catch him ! " 

"II is indeed a majestic duck," said Mandarin Lin, 
gravely stroking his mustache. " I am favorable to his 
capture." 

" You will wait until we catch the duck, illustrious 
rebel ! " said Hang-pou to Piou-Lu, very innocently, never 
turning his eyes from the duck, to which they seemed to 
be glued by some singular spell of attraction. 

" I will talk with the Mandarin Wei-chang-tze while you 
put your noble manoeuvres into motion," answered Piou-Lu. 

"Now let us steal upon the duck," said Hang-pou. 
" Handsomely-formed duck, we entreat of you to remain 
as quiet as possible, in order that we may grasp you in 
our hands." 

Then, as if actuated by a single impulse, the entire 
crowd, with the exception of Wei-chang-tze and Piou-Lu, 
moved toward the duck. The Mandarins stepped on 
tiptoe, with bent bodies, and little black eyes glistening 
with eagerness ; Hang-pou crawled on his belly like a 
serpent; and the soldiers, casting aside their bows and 
shields, crept, with their hands upon their sides, toward 
the beautiful bird. The duck remained perfectly quiet, 
its variegated wings shining like painted tale, and its 
neck lustrous as the court robe of a first-class Mandarin. 
The crowd scarcely breathed, so intense was their eager- 
ness to capture the duck ; and they moved slowly forward, 
gradually surrounding it. 

Hang-pou was the first to make a clutch at the bird, 
but he was very much astonished to find his hand closing 
on empty air, while the duck remained seated on the 
wolf, as still as a picture. 



476 THE DRAGON FANG. 

"Miserable tailor!" cried Mandarin Liu, "your hand 
is a sieve, with meshes wide enough to strain elephants. 
How can you catch the beautiful duck 1 Behold me ! '* 
and Mandarin Lin made a rapid and well-calculated dive 
at the duck. To the wonderment of every one except 
Piou-Lu and Wei-chang-tze, the duck seemed to ooze 
through his fingers, and, escaping, flew away to the other 
end of the room. * 

" If my hand is a sieve," said Hang-pou, " it is evident 
that the noble Mandarin's hand is not a wall of beaten 
copper, for it lets ducks fly through with wonderful ease." 

*'It is a depraved and abominable duck, of criminal 
parentage," said Mandarin Lin, in a terrible rage; "and 
I vow, by the whiskers of the Dragon, that I will catch 
it and burn it on a spit." 

" 0, yes ! " cried the entire crowd, — Mandarins, soldiers, 
and the little tailor, — all now attracted to the chase of 
the duck by a power that they could no longer resist. 
" 0, yes ! we will most assuredly capture this little duck, 
and, depriving him of his feathers, punish him on a spit 
that is exceedingly hot." 

So the chase commenced. Here and there, from one 
corner to the other, up the walls, on the altar of the 
household gods, — in short, in every possible portion of the 
large room, did the Mandarins, the little tailor, and the 
soldiers pursue the shadow of the beautiful duck. Never 
w^as seen such a duck. It seemed to be in twenty places 
at a time. One moment Mandarin Lin would throw him- 
self bodily on the bird, in hopes of crushing it, and would 
call out triumphantly that now indeed he had the duck ; 
but the words would be hardly out of his mouth when a 
loud shout from the rest of the party would disabuse his 
mind, and, turning, he would behold the duck marching 



THE DRAGON FANG. 477 

proudly down the centre of the floor. Another time a 
soldier would declare that he had the duck in his breeches 
pocket; but while his neighbors were carefully probing 
that recess the duck would be seen calmly emerging from 
his right-hand sleeve. One time Hang-Pou sat down 
suddenly on the mouth of a large china jar, and resolutely 
refused to stir, declaring that he had seen the duck enter 
the jar, and that he was determined to sit upon the mouth 
imtil the demon of a duck was starved to death. But 
even while uttering his heroic determination, his mouth 
was seen to open very wide, and, to the astonishment of 
all, the duck flew out. In an instant the whole crowd 
was after him again ; Mandarin Hy-le tumbled over 
Mandarin Ching-tze, and 'Mandarin Lin nearly drove his 
head through Hang-pou's stomach. The unhappy wretches 
began now to perspire and grow faint with iiitigue. but 
the longer the chase went on the hotter it grew. There 
was no rest for any of them. From corner to corner, 
from side to side, — now in one direction, now in another, — 
no matter whither the duck flew, they were compelled to 
follow. Their faces streamed, and their legs seemed ready 
to sink under them. Their eyeballs were ready to start 
out of their heads, and they had the air of government 
couriers who had travelled five hundred li in eleven days. 
They were nearly dead. 

" Those men will surely perish, illustrious claimant of 
the throne," said Wei-chang-tze, gazing with astonishment 
at this mad chase. 

" Let them perish ! " said the conjurer; " so will perish 
all the enemies of the Celestial sovereign, Ti^n-t^. Wei- 
chang-tze, once more, do you accept my off'er'? If you 
remain here, you will be sent to Pekin in chains ; if you 
come with me, I will gird your waist with the scarf of 



478 THE DRAGON FANG. 

Perpetual Delight. We want wise men like you to guide 
our armies, and — " 

" And the illustrious Tien-te loves the Mandarin's 
daughter," said Wei-chang-tze, roguishly finishing the 
sentence. " Light of the Universe and Son of Heaven, 
Wei-chang-tze is your slave ! " 

Piou-Lu — for I still call him by his conjurer's name — 
gave a low whistle, and, obedient to the summons, Wu's 
delicate shape came gliding from the corridor toward her 
lover, with the dainty step of a young fawn going to the 
fountain. 

" Wu," said Piou-Lu, " the marble is carved, and the 
hour is come." 

''My father, then, has consented?" said Wu, looking 
timidly at her father. 

" When the Emperor of the Central Land condescends 
to woo, what father dare refuse 1 " said Wei-chang-tze. 

" Emperor ! " said Wu, opening her black eyes with 
wonder. " My Piou-lu an Emperor ! " 

"I am indeed the son of the Dragon," said Piou-Lu, 
folding her to his breast, " and you shall sit upon a 
throne of ivory and gold." 

" And I thought you were only a conjurer ! " murmured 
Wu, hiding her head in his yellow gown. 

" But how are we to leave this place 1 " asked Wei- 
chang-tze, looking alarmed. " The guard will seize us if 
they get knowledge of your presence." 

" We shall be at my castle in the mountains of Tse- 
Hing, near the Kouei-Lin, in less than a minute," an- 
swered Piou-Lu ; " for to the possessor of the Dragon Fang 
all things are possible," 

Even as he spoke the ground began to slide from under 
their feet with wonderful rapidity, leaving them motion- 



THE DRAGON FANG. 479 

less and upright. Houses, walls, gardens, fields, all 
passed by them with the swiftness of a dream, until, in 
a few seconds, they found themselves in the mountain 
castle of Tien-te, where they were welcomed with a 
splendid hospitality. Wu became the favorite wife of 
the adventurous Emperor, and Wei-chang-tze one of his 
most famous generals. 

The day after these events some Tartar soldiers en- 
tered Wei-chang-tze's house to search for the Mandarin, 
when, in the reception-hall, they were confounded at 
finding a number of men lying dead upon the floor, while 
in the midst sat a beautiful duck, that immediately on 
their entrance flew out through a window, and was seen 
no more. The dead men were soon recognized, and it 
was the opinion of the people of Tching-tou that Wei- 
chang-tze had poisoned all the soldiers and Mandarins, 
and then fled. The tailor, Hang-pou, being among the 
corpses, was found to have given his creditors the slip 
forever. 

Victory still sits on the banner of Tien-te, and he will, 
without doubt, by the time that the tea is again fit to 
gather, sit upon the ancient throne of his ancestors. 

Everything is now gracefully concluded. 



APPENDIX. 



'/ come but in as others do." 

Shakespeare. 




Charles Dawson Shanly. 
From a painting by William E. Marshall. 



CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 

iFrom, the New York Tribune, April 19, 1875.] 



Information has been received of the death of Charles Dawson 
Shanly. He expired at Jacksonville, in Florida, whither he had 
gone for the benefit of his health, on the 15th of April. This news 
will carry a sharp pang of sorrow to more than one heart. Mr. 
Shanly was known to the public as a writer for the magazines, — 
charmingly companionable, quietly humorous, playful, and quaint ; 
but all that he was as a writer seems little in comparison with what 
he was as a man ; and it is the high-minded, kind-hearted, simple, 
faithful comrade and friend, rather than the man of letters, who 
will at first be mourned. Nobility of character, integrity of con- 
duct, fidelity to duty, cheerful submission to fate, sweetness of 
temperament, and modesty of bearing are rarer and richer virtues 
than intellectual brilliancy ; and they were all combined in him. 
Mr. Shanly has lived in New York, working with his pen, for about 
eighteen years ; and to all who knew him, and all with whom he 
came into contact, he was conspicuous as a type of what, with ten- 
derness and pride, the human heart instinctively accepts as a gentle- 
man. His life was lonely. His mind seemed to have been long ago 
saddened in some way, but not embittered. He was a kindly, quiet, 
thoughtful man, who worked hard, accomplished much, did all the 
good that he could find to do, and never spoke about himself or 
his labors. His fortunes were small, and they were precarious. 
He was at times acquainted with hardship. But whether in shadow 
or sunshine his mind and heart remained equable and patient, and 
his industry and probity undisturbed. There were not many per- 
sons, perhaps, who saw and appreciated his example. The more 
showy and pretentious author gets the most credit with the crowd. 
But those who did understand this example found comfort and 



484 APPENDIX. 

strength in it, and will remember it now with love and pride. Mr. 
Shanly's writings consist of many essays and descriptive articles, in 
The Atlantic Monthly, many poems and ballads, — some of which 
are imaginative and pathetic, while some are satirical or humorous, 
— and many miscellaneous articles and paragraphs in the newspapers. 
He was, in 1860, one of the chief contributors to Vanity Fair, — 
which was started, in the fall of the previous year, by Mr. William 
A. Stephens, — and he became, at a subsequent time, its editor. 
He was also the editor of 3Irs. Grundy, which was started here by 
Dr. Alfred L. Carrol, in July, 1865, and was discontinued after the 
publication of twelve numbers. He was a contributor to The New 
York Leader, for which, as afterward for T}ie New York Weekly 
Review, and during a time for The New York Albion, he wrote 
reviews oLart. He was passionately fond of painting, and he was 
an expert draughtsman in the line of comic sketches. One of his 
characteristic dramngs, published, long ago, in The London Punch, 
represents with excellent comic effect the horror and discomfiture of 
a stout old Englishman, who, at a private mugeum of natural cu- 
riosities, has mistaken a big horned owl for a stuffed cat, and has 
got his bald head scratched by the angry fowl. This little thing 
is mentioned as denoting the bent of his playfulness. He was also 
a contributor to The New York Won^ld, wherein he 'WTote upon social 
topics and the evanescent trifles of the passing day. He particularly 
excelled as a writer of poems of dramatic incident, or of representa- 
tive dramatic mood. "The Brier- wood Pipe," which met with a 
wide acceptance and admiration during the Civil War, was his ; and 
so too was the weird ballad of "The Walker of the Snow." Still 
another unique work of this kind was his startling and sad poem, 
— which is picture and poem in one, — " Pdfleman, shoot me a fancy 
shot." This was first published in London, in Ov/ie a Week. Mr. 
Shanly did not, perhaps, accomplish enough in this vein to win for 
him an abiding rank among the poets ; but his name is entitled to 
its place in every representative collection of American poetry. He 
was not indeed an American by birth, but this was the land of his 
choice and his labors, and here he would have wished to be remem- 
bered. Mr. Shanly Avas an Irish gentleman, of old and honorable 
family. He lived in Great Britain, and also in Canada, before settling 
in New York. He was about fifty years of age, and of a hardy con- 
stitution, having blue eyes, iron -gray hair, a weather-beaten face, 



CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 485 

and a slender, wiry figure. He was thoroughly well acquainted 
with animals and field sports, and he was a great walker. Within 
the last two years his health has seemed to waste slowly and grad- 
ually away ; but this, like all else that was painful and sad in his 
life, he kept to himself. He knew when he went hence that he was 
going to his death, and he had prepared himself, with humbleness 
and submission, for the inexorable change. There is no one of the 
busy workers in journalism who will not be benefited by reflection 
upon a character so pure and simple, a life so industrious, useful, 
and blameless, and an end so trancLuil. 

William Winter. 



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